


Mango Flavored Serotonin

by makeupourminds



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: 5+1 Things, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dialogue Heavy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Gay Richie Tozier, Getting Together, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Internalized Homophobia, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Kinda?, Like seriously they're so dumb, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Richie Tozier, Pennywise is real but irrelevant, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Song Lyrics, Song fic, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, Suicide Attempt, Teen Angst, Teenagers, That indie movie summer vibe, but no one dies I promise, fuck the clown, idiots to lovers, that's its own trigger tag, the tags make it sound heavier than it is, they watch the emoji movie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 46,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23908297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makeupourminds/pseuds/makeupourminds
Summary: "Lately it’s been like- fuck, I don’t know, like I can only be happy when I’m around other people? Like when I’m with you- with any of the losers, I feel so fucking great, Top Tier Trashmouth, ready to fuckin’ burn the city down or whatever the fuck,” And Eddie can feel Richie smile when he lets out the smallest huff of a laugh at that, “But as soon as the party’s over and I go home it’s like I just… shut down. I can’t even tell you how many times this summer I’ve gotten home from hanging out with you guys and just started crying, for like no fucking reason! It’s stupid, I know it’s stupid, but it’s like… It’s almost like I just can’t be happy by myself, ya know?”And as much as Eddie hates to admit it, that’s the first thing Richie’s said so far that he really, truly understands.-----He doesn't know what it is about his driveway that makes Richie want to pour his heart out, but it happens every time.Formerly When The Party's Over
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 53
Kudos: 76





	1. Love Love Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the link for the accompanying playlist, including all the songs the chapter names are taken from:  
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2HQahc38s39UPciv5W3RxQ?si=LHydZt3RTVGi0gm0kAb2Jw
> 
> If the link doesn't work, the playlist is called When The Party's Over- R+E

Richie getting a car was simultaneously the best and worst thing that had ever happened to the losers club, murderous space clowns included. 

His rusted old pickup was a gift from Went for his 17th birthday, since he hadn't learned to drive until after his 16th. It was a hunk of scrap metal in the nicest of terms, an '89 Toyota Tacoma with only one bench of seats in the cab and chipped blue paint covering the body. It was a stick shift, and Richie hadn't shut up for weeks bragging that he knew how to drive stick-  _ "I'm an absolute panty dropper, Eds!"-  _ and no one else in the losers club did. Mike had promptly learned how to drive his grandpa's old farm truck just to shut him up, and Richie had pouted for a week afterwards. Eddie  _ hated _ that beat up truck. It was loud, the seats were full of holes, the seatbelts  _ definitely _ weren't up to code. It was a deathtrap, and every time his mother saw it she about had a heart attack. 

The worst thing about the stupid truck is that it's currently parked in front of Eddie's house. 

"Eduardo!" Richie calls through the window as he honked the horn repeatedly, "Road trip time, let's go! Ándale!" 

Eddie rolls his eyes as he tugs his bag further up on his shoulder, turning to where his mother is seated behind him.

"I really wish you wouldn't go with that Tozier boy, Eddie-bear, what if you get hurt? He can't help you at all, he doesn't know anything!" She laments from her chair, face neutral despite the worried lilt of her voice, "Those trucks are so easy to flip, and what if the fireworks malfunction? You could get hurt, you could get set on  _ fire _ ! You should stay here with me, we can watch all those soaps you like-" 

"Ma, we'll be  _ fine _ ," Eddie cut off firmly, patience wearing thin from Richie's continued ruckus outside, "We won't even be at the park, Richie's a great driver, I'm going now, love you," He rambles as he rushes to get the door closed before she could sink her claws any deeper, jogging out to the truck and chucking his bag at Richie as soon as he wrenched the door open. 

"Finally, my lover doth arrive!" Richie cheers dramatically as he lays the back of his hand across his forehead and slumps slightly in his chair, accent treading just on the wrong side of a Voice, "I was beginning to fret that the voluptuous Mrs. K had fallen on you, crushing you under her ample bosom and killing you instantly," He wails, squealing when a pointed elbow digs harshly into his side. 

"Shut the fuck up Richie," Eddie hisses as he slams the door, "Bosom doesn't even mean ass you fucking idiot, you're just using buzzwords," He jerkily buckles himself to the middle of the bench directly next to Richie, knowing that as soon as the others got into the car he'd be pushed there anyway to make more room. Richie laughs and pulls out of the driveway, swinging his arm around Eddie's shoulders on the seat bench as he turns to look behind him. 

They're on the way to Bill's to meet the rest of the losers to finalize plans and divide into cars before they all head to Bangor for the Fourth of July fireworks show they always hold in the park. Everyone knows the fireworks display there was far better than any meak show they might try to put on in Derry, and the losers had decided to take their first ever road trip together to go cause chaos in a new setting for once. It had been quite the task to convince his mom to let him go- especially when she found out that Richie would be the one driving him there- but after several days of placating her incessant worrying and a little bit of just straight up lying, he'd managed to secure her hesitant permission. 

"Maybe so, but that doesn't make me any less right about your mom's juicy fuckin' as-"

"If you finish that sentence I'm gonna choke you while you drive, and then we'll  _ both _ die in this fuckin’ car," Eddie interjects with a glare as Richie accidentally jerks the truck forward a little too aggressively in the direction of Bill's house. 

"Ooh, kinky," Richie cackles, glancing at Eddie through the corner of his eyes, "Is that a promise, sugar?" He purrs as he waggles his eyebrows and nudges Eddie's shoulder, struggling to keep his eyes on the road in favor of watching Eddie's nose scrunch in distaste. 

"Eugh, you wish, you fuckin' creep," Eddie crosses his arms and rolls his eyes, fighting down the blush that threatens to crown the tops of his cheekbones.

"Mm, keep talkin' like that baby, I'm close," Richie moans with a grin, barking out a laugh when Eddie punches him in the shoulder even as his cheeks flame red. 

"Beep beep Richie, you're so fucking gross," He snipps as he looks away from Richie's tongue poking out between his too-big front teeth, "And don't call me baby." 

"I won't allow kink shaming in my truck Eds, this is a safe space."

"You're insufferable."

"And yet you suffer me anyways," Richie quips as he pulls up along the sidewalk in front of Bill's house, killing the engine and tugging the keys from the ignition. Eddie rolls his eyes and struggles with his seat belt, scooting toward the door the second he's free. 

"That's it, I'm riding with Billy, I've already had enough of you for the day," He calls back as he hops down from the truck, ignoring Richie's whines of protest as he saunters over to where the rest of the group is gathered around the porch. 

"Hey Eddie," Mike calls with his award winning grin as he is the first to notice the other boy's arrival, dropping his arm from its place around Bill's shoulders to squeeze Eddie into his side. 

The rest of the losers give their welcomes as Richie jogs up to them, immediately draping himself over Bev's back with a crooked grin. 

"Alright chaps, what's the plan of action?" He beams in his British Guy Voice, pouting when Bev shakes him off her shoulders and turns, raising an eyebrow as she appraises his outfit. 

"Oh dear God, what are you wearing?" She sighs as she takes a good look at him. It's not really a question so much as it is a defeated statement, the type of resigned disappointment usually reserved for parents watching their toddler happily traipse into the house covered in mud. This is completely warranted, however, because Richie is wearing yet another completely atrocious outfit. 

All things considered, today's outfit is pretty tame. He wears a tank top patterned like an American flag, with the words 'American Girl' written in frilly cursive across the chest. Of course, over the tank top he's got an open white button up with splatters of color across it that Eddie thinks are supposed to be fireworks. His dark curls stick out harshly from underneath a bright red baseball cap with "Make Kanye 2006 Again" stitched in white lettering across the front, and every time he wears it, it garners excessive teasing from the rest of the losers (except for Bill, who he knows secretly loves it). This outfit is topped off by mid-thigh black boardshorts, with “God’s not dead,” written on his right thigh. 

“Why I’m so glad you asked, dearest Beverly,” Richie continues in the Voice, “This is what I call my liberty lover outfit, I’ve been planning it for days,” He does a twirl for his audience, wiggling his hips to draw attention to the bold white text on the ass of his shorts simply reading “Yet.” 

“Are you seriously indirectly threatening God through your fucking outfit?” Stan asks with a quirk of his brow, leaning against the pillar of the porch.

“Oh it’s not a threat, Stanny, it’s a promise,” Richie grins, tugging on the collar of the firework shirt and rocking back and forth on his heels.

Richie had gone through many evolutions throughout his three years of highschool, both physically and in his sense of fashion, if one could call it that. Sometime during freshman year he'd shot up well past the rest of them in height, Mike being the only one in the group who was still taller than him. His round cheeks had given way to a sharp jaw and collapsed to reveal much more defined cheekbones, and he'd somehow grown into his aquiline nose and wide mouth. He'd traded his coke bottle glasses in for more modern frames, though the lenses themselves were still thick enough to magnify his eyes. The new frames are thin copper colored wire, and the first time Eddie had seen them he'd told Richie he looked like "a bad impersonation of that Ross Lynch Jeffery Dahmer movie." Richie shot back with some admittedly weak insult, and whined about it on the phone with Bev later that night. 

Richie's never had any specific aesthetic, but whatever the hell he's adopted as of recently certainly fits his personality more than any of the others had. One day in the last three months of their Junior year, Richie had sat down at their usual lunch table to declare that his new aesthetic was 'Thrift Shop Nightmare,' as he'd so lovingly called it. He made it his personal goal to put together the worst outfit he could possibly conjure up, with the aid of every oddly specific t-shirt from Goodwill he could find and hand-me-down windbreakers his parents relinquished. 

“Alright, now that we’re done giving Richie his daily dose of attention,” Bev cuts in, leaning into Ben’s side as he blushes, “Can we please finish planning this shit out and get a goddamn move on?” 

“I second that,” Eddie chimes in, tugging at the strap of his overalls impatiently, “Show starts in like an hour and a half and I wanted to go to Walmart before we find a place to park.”   
  
“That’s probably a good idea, I didn’t pack any snacks,” Mike admits.

“Mikey,” Richie gasps dramatically, “You’re supposed to be the prepared one.”

“You’re literally the most unprepared person I’ve ever met in my life Rich,” Eddie interjects.

“Ah, but I’m always prepared where it matters darlin’,” He drawls in response as he slithers toward the smaller boy, laughing when Eddie pushes him away with a hand on his face. 

“There’s a Walmart right off the highway when you enter Bangor, we can stop there to load up on snacks n’ stuff,” Ben continues on despite Richie and Eddie’s tangent, arm now wrapped loosely around Bev’s waist. 

“Sounds good to m-me,” Bill decides, the rest of the group humming their ascent, “Last o-order of buh-business: who has to ride with R-Richie and Eddie.”

There’s a beat of silence as the rest of the group looks at each other and Richie and Eddie gape in offense, before four hands simultaneously raise to their noses. Bev is slower on the uptake than the rest, leaving her the only one in the group with her hand still down. 

“Oh come on,” She whines with a pout, “You guys suck.”   
  
“I’m just wondering why none of our  _ best friends  _ want to ride with us,” Eddie frowns angrily, crossing his arms and cocking out his hip.

“You know  _ exactly _ why,” Stan glares, and okay, fair point. 

“Don’t worry Bev, I can come with too,” Ben offers softly, squeezing her hip gently as she smiles up at him. 

They say a few more words before they all separate into the cars, Bill having borrowed his mom’s jeep to more comfortably fit his friends and the cooler, blankets, and other miscellaneous items he stuffed in the trunk. Bangor is only a twenty minute drive from Derry at most, though with the way both Richie and Bill drive it’s closer to fifteen. Richie lets Eddie control the music on the ride there, proud to show off the new stereo system he and Wentworth had installed in the truck. It is by far the nicest thing about the pickup, not that that's a particularly hard standard to surpass. 

Eddie is crushed up between Richie and Bev in the cab even with Beverly practically sitting in Ben's lap, because the truck is  _ definitely _ only meant for three people at most. He's trying to engage in the conversation they're having- he thinks that Bev and Richie are arguing about something involving Madonna, but he's not sure what- but he's a little distracted to say the least. 

It's just that Richie looks  _ really _ good in this golden hour sunlight. His boney porcelain hands look oddly beautiful against the stark black of the steering wheel and the clutch, and Eddie's a little mad that Richie was definitely right about it being weirdly hot to be able to drive stick. The white button up is starting to slip off his right shoulder, revealing freckled skin that Eddie rarely ever gets to see. And the  _ shorts _ , God he's kinda angry that they're driving him crazy. Richie never wears shorts unless he's swimming, and Eddie doesn't really know why. Sure his legs are a little scrawny just like the rest of him, but they're strong and they go on for  _ miles _ , and no one needs to know if Eddie's memorizing the way his thigh flexes every time he scoots around in his seat. 

In the end, it's a (mercifully) short car ride.

The Walmart is packed when they arrive but that just adds to the fun as the seven teens barrel into the store and scatter to find snacks. They stick relatively close to one another, always in the same section of the store as they move as a disjointed pack. After a brief pitstop in the pool accessories aisle to stop Richie and Bill from duking it out with pool noodles, Eddie loads up on every sugar packed, over-salted snack his mother would never allow him to have under her supervision. He grabs a few drinks too of course, because even though Bill's cooler is loaded with soda, he's never liked the way carbonation feels on his teeth all that much anyways. 

They ultimately decide to park in the lot of a small grocery store that's closed for the day, a few blocks away from the park where nearly everyone goes to watch the fireworks. They all agreed when they made the plans to not even bother with the park, considering trying to find a parking spot would be a nightmare and they'd probably just be surrounded by screaming toddlers anyways. Richie pulls into the lot first, parking in the far back with the bed of the truck facing the park. Bill pulls up next to them as the four clamber out of the cab. 

"Alright bitches, let's get this party started," Richie grins when all seven of them are gathered again, slamming open the bed of the truck and patting it as Bill unloads the supplies from his car. Mike, Bill, Richie, and Ben get to work setting everything up, while Eddie, Bev, and Stan simply watch them struggle. 

Richie and Bill start bickering almost immediately. 

"-Makes no fucking s-s-sense! Why would we put the chairs in the f-fucking bed when we have a blanket!" 

"For the  _ view _ , Billiam! Use your fuckin' brain!"

"How many braincells do you think they all have, like, combined?" Bev asks as she tilts her head, leaning back against Bill’s jeep. 

“I don't know, five at most? Maybe six, if we’re being generous,” Stan decides, crossing his arms and raising a brow as Mike nearly drops the cooler and Ben stands off to the side holding a lawn chair in each arm, lost as Bill and Richie continue to argue on their placement.

“I think a better question is ‘who’s got the most brain cells,’ which personally I’m gonna argue is Mike,” Eddie wagers. Beverly scoffs.

“How dare you, obviously Ben has the most out of the four of them,” She argues, lovingly watching as Ben just shakes his head and starts setting the lawn chairs up around the truck. 

“You’re just biased because you’re dating him,” Stan scolds, “I think Richie and Bill both have one, and Ben and Mike both have two. They’re on the same level.”   
  
“Now you’re giving Richie way too much credit,” Eddie shakes his head, counting off on his fingers as he continues, “Richie has half a brain cell, Bill has one, Ben has one and a half, and Mike has the other two.”

“Fair enough I guess,” Bev concedes as the boys finish setting everything up. 

The final setup has four lawn chairs with two on each side of Richie’s open truck bed, with the blanket covering the floor of the bed and the cooler resting on the ground near one of the chairs. Richie’s driver side door is propped open so that the music playing inside the cab can be heard. His phone is inside hooked up to the aux and playing Play That Funky Music by Wild Cherry, because he thinks he’s funny. 

Shortly after that Richie makes Eddie take a video of him standing on the top of the truck, dancing around to a Front Bottoms song and jumping off the roof. The video cuts off with Eddie yelling at him for his reckless stunt, and Richie loves it so much that he puts it on his instagram story. 

The sun starts to go down and the losers settle into a comfortable chaos while they wait for the fireworks show to start. Eddie sits on Richie’s tailgate with his legs hanging off, Ben and Beverly sitting next to him in all their grossly-cute-couple glory. Richie and Bill are sparring a little too aggressively, and Mike and Stan are standing near them with hilariously stressed out expressions. 

Eddie’s always felt content around the losers- that was kind of the point of their group in the first place- but as he watches Bill lunge at Richie as the other boy cackles, he feels especially at peace. He’s never been able to spend the Fourth of July with his friends, has never had the confidence to ask, but the losers give him the courage he needs to stand up to his mother more and more. It had been Beverly and Richie who were there for him when he found out that all his medicine was fake, and Bill who promises him he isn’t weak when he feels guilty for still occasionally needing his inhaler. It's Stan and Ben who calm him down with logic and facts when his hypochondria has his mind racing, and Mike who slowly coaxes him out of his comfort zone by cooking him new kinds of food whenever they hang out at the farm. His friends make him a better person, and he's incredibly grateful for that. 

Eddie feels himself blush as Richie catches him staring in his direction and throws him a wink before returning to his battle with Bill. He can’t help the shame that almost immediately follows the butterflies in his stomach, and he looks away with a frown. He plays with his phone instead, waiting for his face to return to its regular tanned complexion.  _ Boys shouldn't look at other boys like that, Eddie-bear, it's not natural _ , the voice in his head that sounds oddly like his mother scolds. He squeezes his eyes shut as Beverly laughs beside him, bumping shoulders with him and causing him to look up at her expectantly.

“I’d ask you if you heard what I just said, but you’re definitely too busy making heart eyes at Richie to pay attention,” She giggles, leaning back against Ben’s side and gazing at him knowingly. Eddie’s breath hitches, the redness in his features returning for a vastly different reason.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” He grumbles, “I’m staring at him because he’s acting like a dumbass. I’m  _ not  _ making heart eyes.”   


“Sure you aren’t, Eddie,” Ben laughs good naturedly, completely unaware of the way it shoots arrows through Eddie’s chest.  


He knows it’s dumb, but he’s not out to the losers yet. He knows they’d support him, hell, Mike and Bill have been dating for going on four months. And Beverly and Ben are making it quite clear at the moment that they know and they’re okay with it. That’s not necessarily the problem, though. He may be able to admit to himself in his thoughts that he’s gay, but that doesn’t mean he can say it out loud yet. He had cried when he finally realized it, showered for over an hour desperately scrubbing at his skin until he was red and raw all over. He’d spent his entire life raised by a woman who conflated being gay with having AIDS, and at the already confusing age of fourteen he suddenly  _ was _ the type of person he’d been taught to avoid at all costs. Even three years later he still has a hard time breaking down the mental connection of  _ gay  _ equalling  _ dirty _ . Besides, Derry is not the type of town you can be gay in. What's left of Bowers' gang still torments him constantly, calling him every variation of faggot and flamer under the sun. He shivers to think about what they'd do if they knew they were right. He wouldn't be safe.

And then there’s the problem of Richie. He knows that Richie would support him if he were to come out, knows that Richie would be the first person to tell him there’s nothing wrong with him if he needed him to. But there’s a difference between accepting your best friend who’s gay, and accepting your best friend who’s gay  _ and in love with you _ . Richie would be uncomfortable, hell he might even get angry. He might call Eddie disgusting, tell him he never has and never will love him that way. He’d splinter off from Eddie, distance himself until Eddie stops showing his face around his friends and eventually moves away all alone and never speaks to the losers agai-

His spiralling thoughts are interrupted by a loud bang and the sound of Bill gasping. Eddie’s head whips around at the sound, seeing Richie on the ground against Bill’s car with Stan kneeling next to him and Mike and Bill standing above them. There’s a relatively sizable dent in the trunk door of his mom’s car right above where Richie’s sitting on the ground.

“Richie, what the f-f-fuck,” Bill breathes as he stares at the dent, shaking Mike’s comforting hand off his shoulder, “My mom’s gonna k-kill m-me.”

“You’re the one who pushed me so fuckin’ hard,” Richie bites back as he stands, dusting dirt off his legs with scratched palms. 

“You de-dented my mom’s fucking c-car! She’s gonna b-be p-pis-pissed!” Bill yells back, hands angrily flailing to emphasize his point. Richie goes to reply as he takes a step forward, but he’s stopped by Stan’s hand on his chest. Eddie, Beverly, and Ben have hopped off Richie's tailgate by now and are standing closer, Eddie reaching out for Richie’s hand to check the scrapes on his palm, "Why are you a-always the one who f-fucks stuff up?" Bill continues despite Stan's obvious attempt to intervene. 

“Guys, just take a breath for a second. I’m sure we can figure out a way to fix it,” Stan reasons as Eddie retrieves peroxide wipes from his bag to wipe down Richie’s hands. 

“How the fuck are we gonna fix a dent, Stan?” Richie snarls, hissing as the peroxide seeps into a particularly rough patch of his hand. His shoulders are tight and his brow is low, but he doesn’t push Eddie off, patiently letting him fret over his friend’s minor injuries. 

“Actually, I think I know a way we could fix it. We’d just need some hot water and like, a plunger,” Mike interjects, stepping closer to Bill and smiling gently when his boyfriend leans back against his chest slightly. Eddie doesn't miss the way Richie's eyes linger on the two of them, something deep in his irises sparking for a split second before being swallowed once again.

“We might need a screwdriver or something to seperate the panels on the door, but that could work,” Ben adds, moving to take a closer look at the dent. 

“Looks like we’re going back to Walmart,” Stan sighs, “Who wants to stay here and watch all our stuff?”

“Eddie and I can stay, God knows we’re the most responsible,” Bev volunteers, shooting Eddie an innocent smile when he raises a brow at her in confusion. Something a little duller than dread settles in his stomach.

The five boys climb into Sharon Denbrough’s now-dented jeep, and Bev and Eddie settle back into their original spots on the tailgate as the fireworks hiss and pop in the distance. The vibrant colors look brilliant bleeding against the inky black canvas of the sky around them, but the reds and blues do nothing to soothe the feeling in Eddie’s stomach that’s making him feel a little bit sick. 

Beverly is quiet for all of five minutes before she bluntly confirms Eddie’s suspicions.

“So,” She starts with a toothy grin aimed in his direction, “When are you gonna tell him you like him?”

Eddie sputters and tries to calm his drumming heart. His ribcage isn't big enough to hold the anxiety inflating his chest cavity. 

“I don’t fucking like Richie,” He mutters, hugging his torso as a protection from the slight breeze raising the hairs on his arms. Bev hums.

“I never said it was Richie, hun,” She chuckles, expression softening when she notices Eddie’s panic. 

“It was implied and you know it. Can we please just fucking drop it?” Eddie bites angrily, face warmed by all the blood settled in his cheeks, “I don’t have a fucking crush on Richie, and even if I did, it’s none of your business.” 

He knows he’s being too snappy with her, and he knows that she’s just trying to help, but all she’s doing is backing him into a corner and forcing him to bare his teeth in hopes to ward her off. He doesn't want to talk about his feelings for Richie, because talking about it makes it real. He can make up all the excuses in the world for the way his heart stutters when Richie smiles at him, and beats in time with his laughter. He can think of other reasons why he can feel his lungs shrivel up when Richie's not paying attention to him, and the way his mouth goes dry every time he catches Richie chewing on his chapped lips. He can ignore the way he feels so much for Richie that it's sometimes overwhelming, but if he says it out loud, he can't pretend anymore. It'll be real. And it absolutely  _ cannot _ be real. It just can't be. 

"Alright, alright, maybe I was wrong," Bev says in a way that means she knows she's not, "Can I just ask you one thing?"

"Go ahead," He allows with little enthusiasm, watching her from the corner of his eye. 

"Why don't you want to tell him?" She asks a moment later, carefully watching Eddie with an expression he can't quite make out. He heaves a sigh and looks forward towards the fireworks display, closing his eyes against the blue heart shaped explosion that illuminates his warm features in cool tones.

"There's nothing to tell."

* * *

The boys come back half an hour later with everything they need: a plunger, a cheap tool kit, and a cup of hot water from McDonald's. Turns out the dent is a pretty easy fix when they set to it, though not every part of it comes out. It's much smaller than it was in the beginning though, so it's cause for celebration. Bill high-fives the other boys, and even though Richie smiles through it, Eddie sees the way his shoulders haven't relaxed and the muscles in his jaw are strained. But Richie doesn't say anything, so neither does Eddie. 

They stay to watch the fireworks for another hour or so after that, making easy conversation in the occasional light of the display. Bill somehow managed to sneak an entire case of beer from his parents and hands one out to each of the losers, excluding himself and Richie since they're the ones driving. Eddie takes one sip of his and gags immediately, handing the beer back to Bill as Richie cackles. He decides he hates beer. Richie stays oddly quiet for the rest of the night whenever someone isn't talking to him, leaned back in the lawn chair closest to Eddie. Eddie gently kicks his shoulder every once in a while to let him know he's there, but Richie only ever looks up at him with a tired smile and returns to what he was doing before. 

They decide to leave before the fireworks show is over to get out ahead of traffic, but it's a debate whether they want to call it a night or not since it's not even eleven o'clock yet. Eddie texts his mom that he's on his way home, because he knows that she's asleep by now and she won't see it til morning. She has no way to prove that he's not, and it buys him infinitely more time as well as brownie points for "coming home" early. 

"Do you guys remember that dinosaur playset thing that used to be at the park when we were little?" Stan asks as they try to figure out something else to do, Bill and Mike beginning to pack away the chairs. The losers all make noises of acknowledgement save for Eddie and Ben, who don't know what playground they're talking about. Ben's only lived in Derry for a few years, and Eddie's mom didn't let him go around playgrounds after his dad died. They were too dangerous. 

"Holy shit, yeah! One of the slides looked like a stegosaurus," Bev chimes in excitedly, bouncing on her heels and gently shaking Richie by the arm. He doesn't react much, "Whatever happened to that thing?" 

"I know where it is, actually. It's not too far from here, we could go there," Stan suggests, smiling when the rest of the group agrees. 

"I pushed Bill off that slide once," Richie reminisces with a fond smile, "Ah, the memories."

"Y-yeah, you've always been a d-dick," Bill chides as he puts away the cooler and slams the trunk door, swinging the keys in the other hand, "Alright, all r-ready to go.

They climb back into their original spots in the two cars, Bill's window open so he can talk to them before they go. 

"Just f-follow us and try not to get l-lost," He instructs Richie, leaning out of his window and accidentally revving the gas. 

"Lead the way Billy boy," Richie calls back before he rolls up the window. 

It's only about a ten minute drive out to the small synagogue where the park equipment has been moved. The building is no longer in use since they built the new one in town, but Stan tells them that he remembers when they moved the dinosaur playset there when he was younger. Richie controls the music during the drive, and Eddie notices the way he anxiously drums along to the songs with one hand while the other grips so hard at the wheel that his already pale knuckles are turning white. He doesn't sing along to the songs or make obnoxious jokes, and he doesn't headbang the way he normally would if he were really into the song. He doesn't even hum. He just drives. Eddie decides not to bring it up for the moment and continues talking to Bev and Ben. 

As soon as they park Richie, Bill, Stan, and Mike set to exploring the old equipment that they're still somehow able to fit on- though it is pretty cramped- and Eddie and Beverly take up the only two spots on the swing set. Ben is on the ground near the other boys anxiously reminding them that the park's structural integrity definitely can't handle all their weight at once, but it doesn't really seem like they're listening. The fireworks show can still be heard and seen in the distance, and with how much bigger the fireworks are now than they were an hour ago, they're most likely building up to the finale.

"I'm gonna be honest," Eddie starts quietly, watching the boys hop from one set to another, "I don't remember this playground at all." 

"Really?" Bev asks as she begins to gently swing back and forth. Eddie follows her lead. 

"I didn't get to go on the playgrounds when I was little. My mom even called the school to make sure the teacher knew not to let me go on the playset. I came home with a scrape once from when I went down the slide too fast and she kept me home for a week afterwards," He sighs, tearing his gaze away from Richie's lackluster playing to look down at his feet kicking at the gravel. 

"Yeah well, she's crazy. That why you don't talk about her that often?" Bev replies, and the more he looks back on it, the more he realizes that he _ doesn't  _ talk to Bev about his mom. Bev had seen a glimpse of Sonia the day Eddie broke his arm, but he never really told stories about her. The only people he vented to about his mom were Richie, Bill, and Stan because they already  _ knew _ what she was like. He didn't have to catch them up, and explaining a lifetime of his mom's excessive hovering seemed like an exhausting task. He hears a hard crunch in the gravel and looks over to see Richie lying face down on the ground, Mike and Bill laughing as Richie simply holds up a thumb to signal he's okay. 

"She's why I don't talk about a lot of things," He admits after a pause, gaze still stuck on Richie. He thinks Bev gets what he means. 

She does. 

He looks away. 

"Well maybe if you started talking about certain things more, you'd feel better about them," She says it like she's leading him down a specific path, and he's following right along, "Like, maybe start with telling someone you're comfortable with. Like Richie. Or Bill, or Stan maybe," Bill and Stan are added in a rush as an afterthought, but there's no need. He knows what she's saying and he doesn't like it either way. 

"I don't think I'm ready," He replies as quiet as a mouse, tugging on the neckline of the yellow shirt he wears beneath his overalls. 

"You're never gonna feel ready, sweetpea. You just gotta take the dive and trust they'll catch you," Eddie watches Bev's soft smile as she stares lovingly at Ben while she speaks. His brows pinch subconsciously.

He looks back over to where Richie had fallen to find that the boy is still laying in the gravel. Eddie sees the out he's being given and readily jumps on it. He drags his feet in the gravel to bring the swing to a stop. The sound of it feels far too loud in the weighted air settled around him. 

"I'm gonna check on Rich," He mutters as he stands, walking over to his fallen friend without a glance back at Bev. 

He nudges Richie in the side with the toe of his shoe when he makes it over to him. The other boy does nothing but grunt noncommittally, so Eddie moves to sit cross legged right beside him in the rocks.

"You alright, Rich?" He asks gently, suddenly overcome with the urge to run his hands through the back of Richie's nappy curls. His fists tighten in his lap. 

"I'm fine," Richie mumbles, his already quiet voice muffled by how his face is pressed into the crook of one arm. Richie looks up and Eddie realizes he's been crying, tear stains tracking ruddy red marks through the gravel dust on his freckled cheeks, "I'm not in any pain, promise. Sometimes you just need an excuse to cry."

Eddie doesn't have a good reply to that, so he just nods and sits beside Richie in silent company while the others buzz with energy around them. The atmosphere feels heavy but somehow private in the open air of the playground, as though the other losers have vanished and only he and Richie remain, suspended in their own world. As though they've found a liminal space in their own little corner of the playground. 

Richie sniffles, and Eddie can't stop his fingers from carding through the hair at the nape of his neck.

Somewhere in the distance, the finale of the fireworks show paints the dark sky in technicolor with a deafening  _ pop! _

* * *

Richie drops Eddie off last, as he always does. 

They pull into his driveway sometime after midnight, and Richie must know the drill by now, because he doesn't waste time- or gas- letting the truck idle. He just turns off the headlights and kills the engine, leaning his head back and closing his eyes with a long, exhausted sigh. The music is still playing quietly from where his phone is hooked up to the radio, a playlist Richie has specifically for when he drives at night. It's gonna kill his battery some day, but for now it's a welcome break from the silence between them that has Eddie's ears ringing.

He knows what's coming, he can feel it already cracking at his ribs. Part of him wants to get out of the car before it can happen, already stretched thin from being around his friends for a solid five hours. But he doesn't move from his spot in the passenger seat, having moved into the full sized seat as soon as they'd dropped off Bev and Ben. He tugs at the hem of his overall shorts and shifts in his seat uncomfortably, waiting for Richie to speak.

He doesn't know what it is about his driveway that makes Richie want to pour his heart out, but it happens every time. Maybe it's the private feeling of the car, how it can feel like nothing exists past the scratched windows and sturdy metal doors. Or it might be the fact that there's nothing to stare at besides the garage door, nothing to distract him from his quietest yet most persistent thoughts, nothing to hide behind. 

"So are you gonna tell me what happened tonight or are we just gonna pretend you're good?"

Or maybe it's Eddie's bad habit of never knowing when to leave well enough alone. Richie opens his eyes and sits up, gripping the bottom of the steering wheel too tightly.

"Well since you're being so gracious as to give me options, I'm gonna have to go with the second one, spaghetti," Richie parry's quickly, but his heart's not in it. 

Eddie's chest tightens down. Richie's is still covered in gravel dust. 

"Rich," He scolds mildly, "Don't bullshit me, you've been off all night. You were fine when we left, what happened?" 

"Just say that I ruined the fucking night for you and drop it already, Eds. Fuck," Richie spits suddenly, taking his hat off to throw it on the dashboard and run his hand through his hair, tugging it at the crown. Eddie flinches back, watching Richie's stiff profile.

"Chee, that's not what I meant," Eddie says quieter, gentler. Richie sighs, hands falling to his lap again as he shakes his head. His hands rest at the bottom of the wheel again, fingernails picking at the peeling leather in a way that makes Eddie shudder. 

"That's what Bill said, isn't it? That I fuck everything up?" He mutters bitterly, scratching at the wheel. Eddie's eyes zero in on the way the muscle in Richie's jaw flutters. The already angular features of his face look harsher in the darkness of the car, the only light coming from the dim bulb on the wall above the garage door. It's an inappropriate time for him to think about how pretty Richie is. In his defense, it's an inappropriate time for Richie to look so pretty. 

"He didn't mean that, Rich, he was just stressed," Eddie frowns when his words don't seem to melt any of the tension from his friend's frame, "Was that what put you off for the night?"

The song changes, and Eddie thinks it must be a new addition to the playlist because it's not one he's heard. He does his best to listen. He thinks he sees Richie flinch when he hears the light guitar of the intro, but it's probably just shadows playing tricks on his eyes. 

_ Well, maybe I'm a crook for stealing your heart away _

_ Yeah, maybe I'm a crook for not caring for it _

"Yes? Maybe? Fuck, I don't know. I felt like such a dumbass after that, and Bill was so fuckin' mad. I just kind of… spiraled, I guess," Richie admits, and Eddie knows he's not telling the full story. 

_ Yeah, maybe I'm a bad, bad, bad _

_ Bad person _

"Why'd you need an excuse to cry?" Eddie asks after a moment, unsure if that was the right question to be asking. Richie lets out a breath like he's trying to laugh, but there's no humor in it. 

_ Well baby, I know _

"I don't know- I just…" He pauses, squeezing his eyes shut for a second before shaking his head and turning away to look out his window, "Do you think I'm a bad person?"

_ And these fingertips will never run through your skin _

_ And those bright blue eyes can only meet mine _

"Wh- Wait what? Of course not, where's this coming from?" Eddie splutters, desperately trying to piece together the rails Richie's train of thought has suddenly turned down.

_ Across the room filled with people that are  _

_ Less important than you _

Richie sighs as though he's taken over for Atlas, grown tired of holding the weight of the world on his shoulders. 

_ All cause you love, love, love when you know I can't love _

"I don't- I-, fuck, this is so dumb, I should just shut up," Richie back tracks shakily, fumbling with his keys like he's about to start the truck and tell Eddie to get out. Eddie moves quickly to grab at his hand, fingertips brushing the scraped skin of his palm as Richie stops and looks up at him. Eddie thinks he can still see the fireworks reflecting deep in his irises. 

_ You love, love, love you when you know I can't love _

"I can promise you that whatever you wanna say isn't gonna be dumber than 90% of the shit you say to me," Eddie whispers without breaking eye contact, heart fluttering when the corner of Richie's lips ticks upward. He blows a sharp breath through his nose, gently prying his hand away to tear at a hole in the seat. For a brief moment, the only sound between them is their breath mingling and the airy, gentle melody of the song and it's singer. 

_ You love, love, love when you know I can't love you _

"Yeah I guess you're right," He concedes, no longer looking at Eddie beside him, "I don't know it just… feels like I'm such a shitty friend and person, you know? Like I think I'm just bad at being a person or some shit. I never shut up and I'm always pissing you guys off," He runs his hand through his hair once more, opening his mouth a few times before closing it again. He clearly wants to say something else, so Eddie sits quietly and waits. Richie rubs at his eyes and heaves a sigh like his lungs will never fill again. 

_ So I think it's best that we both forget _

_ Before we dwell on it _

"You know, I've never had a crush on any girls. Even Bev, fuck I think all the losers but me have had a crush on her at some point," Eddie has a million thoughts going through his head as Richie speaks, but the main two are  _ I never liked Bev,  _ and  _ holy shit is he coming out to me right now? _ He tries not to get his hopes up, but his heart has never been any good at listening to him anyways. 

_ The way you held me so tight all through the night _

"That- that doesn't make you a bad person, Rich,"  _ God I hope not,  _ He thinks, "I've, uh, I've never had crushes on girls either," It comes out shakey because he's trembling, clutching his backpack and trying desperately not to reach for the inhaler he doesn't need. Richie gives him a quick look that Eddie doesn't have the capacity to decipher. 

_ Til it was near morning  _

"Really? Not even Bev?" 

_ Cause you love, love, love when you know I can't love _

"Not even Bev," Eddie repeats quietly, steeling himself and remembering what Bev said earlier,  _ you're never gonna feel ready _ , "I've actually been, um, meaning to tell you this for a while," Richie doesn't respond, just watches him attentively and waits for him to finish, so he does, "I'm- I- uh,"  _ Deep breaths, Kaspbrak,  _ "I'm gay," He strains out with his eyes closed like he's waiting to be hit, like he's waiting for Richie to tell him to get out of the car even though every rational part of him knows Richie would never. His heart feels like it's about to crawl up his throat and wither in Richie's hands, and Eddie can't tell if he's about to cradle it to his own chest or squeeze until it pops like a balloon. He shudders at the thought.

_ You love, love, love when you know I can't love _

"Well then, I'll tell Mags to keep an eye on old Went there," Richie smiles at him, tugging Eddie close with an arm around his shoulder and his fist ruffling the smaller boy's hair, and for a moment, his heart soars "I'm proud of you, Spagheds," He says warmly, though there's a hint of hesitation in his voice like his hand's about to clamp down anyways, "But, uh. That's not what I meant. I- I don't think I've ever had a crush on  _ anyone _ ."

_ You love, love, love when you know I can't love you _

"Oh," Eddie breathes like the wind's been knocked out of him and his heart has come crashing down into the pit of his stomach, head spinning as he tries to process the whirlwind of emotions he's been put through in the last two minutes. He's never had whiplash before but he thinks it'd feel something like this, like the phantom ache in his spine and the dull way his chest caves in, "Um, never?" He squeaks, pulling away from Richie's hold to be closer to the door like he's ready to bolt. 

_ All cause you love, love, love when you know I can't love _

"I mean, shit, I don't think so? And it makes me feel so shit, like, I've never been in love. I don't know if I- if I  _ can _ be in love. Like, I don't know if I'm capable of that? I've never thought of… of anyone that way," Richie wraps his arms around himself like he's cold, and Eddie does the same because he's scared it's the only way he can hold himself together in the moment, "Does that make me a bad person?"

_ You love, love, love when you know I can't love _

"No," Eddie whispers, throat too dry and tongue too big in his mouth, "Maybe you just haven't found the right person yet? We're not even seniors yet, you've got time, right?"  _ You've got time to learn to love me, right? _

_ You love, love, love when you know I can't love you. _

"Yeah, I guess," It's a non-answer, but Eddie can tell Richie's drained, his social battery dry and hollow. The song fades out like the wind chimes hanging from Eddie's back porch, and the music stops altogether. The air feels too thick in the silence, viscous like he's trying to pull honey into his lungs and glean oxygen from it. It tastes more bitter than honey, like he's dipped his tongue in lemon juice, but it's just as syrupy as it goes down, coating his throat and sticking the walls closed. He resists the urge to scratch at his neck and grasp for his inhaler, because he doesn't need it, and he knows he doesn't. He grips the handle of the door like it'll save him from drowning on the lemon honey flooding his lungs.

"I should, uh, should get inside," Eddie suggests stiffly, hoping Richie's too out of it to notice, "I'll talk to you later."

"Yeah I'll text you when I get home, Eds," Richie replies absently, staring ahead out the windshield like he's barely even there. Eddie nods. 

"Night, Rich," He slips out of the truck before Richie could reply, if he were ever going to, and trudges up to his room in silence. Richie waits until he's inside to start the truck and back out of the driveway.

Eddie makes it to his room and strips off his overalls and undershirt, pulling on a hoodie he knows is big enough to cover him to his mid thigh. He ignores the fact that it's Richie's Nirvana hoodie and crawls into bed, numbly staring up at the no-longer-glow-in-the-dark stars he and Richie had stuck to his ceiling when they were ten. There are no thoughts racing through his head, no anxieties about getting into bed without showering and brushing his teeth first. He feels exhausted in a way that soaks his bone marrow, weighs him down like a stone dug in the dirt in the bed of a river. All he can do is watch the water run past above him, trapped in the mud as the world carries on without him.

He sits up to look around for the snacks he bought at Walmart early in the night, deciding he needs a drink of something acidic, something strong enough to cut through the thickness in his throat. 

It's when he finally realizes that he left his snacks in Richie's car that he breaks down. 

The tears that have been stinging his eyes since he walked inside finally spill over, the salt water burning tracks down his cheeks and over his lips as he hunches over. He sobs until he chokes on it, coughing and curling further into Richie's torn hoodie. He'll say later that he doesn't know why he cried over forgotten snacks, that he was just tired and being dramatic, that it was just a long night. But in reality, he knows what this is, knows so well the sharp pain in his chest where his heart used to beat. He knows, in the purest truth, that this isn't about the snacks at all. 

_ Sometimes you just need an excuse to cry. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Disclaimer: ace/aro people are 1000% valid on their own, Richie is not aroace in this fic he is just simply heavily repressed and has not allowed himself to think of anyone romantically. Aro/ace people are NOT just repressed gays/straights, it is simply a mechanism for the story and I do not wish to portray it as anything other than that*
> 
> Here's this big bitch of a chapter!! I'm vv proud of this one and excited to hear y'all's thoughts!!


	2. Second Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can’t just fucking sneak out, she hasn’t gone to bed yet, she’d catch me,” He hisses into the phone as his grip tightens, glancing over at his bedroom door to make sure it’s fully closed. 
> 
> “C’mon, Eds, you’ve done it before. Look, I’m already on my way. I’ll just park a block up and you can tell her you’re going to bed early so she doesn’t try to check up on you. Easy,” He explains breezily, and Eddie hates how tempted he is to give into the idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Second Time by Bruno Major

"You are _not_ going out today Eddie-bear, you're getting over your sickness," Sonia dramatizes, gripping too tightly at his wrist with her sloppily painted yellow nails. 

"I'm not sick! We've talked about this, ma, just let me go with my friends," Eddie pleads, tugging out of her grasp and rubbing at his wrist as he clutches it to his chest. 

"You _are_ sick, and you could get hurt, what if you break your arm again? They might not be able to fix it this time Eddie, what if they have to amputate? And then you'll be crippled and-and a _freak_! You don't want that, do you? No, no, no, you should stay home with me, safe and healthy and happy," She stresses, moving to stand in front of the door so that he couldn't get around her if he tried. 

"Mom I'm just trying to go to Bill's house, please just let me go," He near whines. It's not true, he's not going to Bill's house, but she doesn't need to know that. "I'll get sick if I stay inside all the time. Kids need sunlight and fresh air or they'll get weak and get- and get brittle bones."

That gives her pause, a conflicted look flickering past her features as she considers the argument. But maybe he's used this argument too many times, because she doesn't mull it over for long before her expression hardens again. 

"You're too fragile, Eddie-bear. You're not going out today, and that is final," She decides sternly, crossing her arms, "Don't argue with me anymore, go take your medicine and get some rest."

It's the mention of his "medicine" that finally sets him off.

"Oh, oh, my _medicine_ , Mom? You mean the sugar pills you paid Keene to prescribe me?" He pushes hysterically with wild eyes and ruddy cheeks, fists shaking with the anger exploding in his chest, "It's bullshit! I'm so tired of this, it's summer, I want to go out with my friends!"

"Edward Francis Kaspbrak, don’t you dare curse at me," Sonia seethes in an unnervingly steady tone, strong enough to force Eddie to waver, "I don't know which one of your _disgusting_ little friends got it in your head that your medicine isn't real, but they're lying to you. Don't you believe me, Eddie? Your own mother? I would never lie to you like they do, I _love_ you. They want you to get hurt, sweetie, they don't care about you!" She insists as she steps closer, voice shifting to something sweeter but just as poisonous, like honeyed antifreeze poured straight down his throat.

He knows what she's saying isn't true, that the losers would never _want_ him to get hurt, that they love him more than she ever has or will, but it's enough to get him to falter. 

"That's not- that's not true," It's shaky and a little bit unsure, and she knows it. "They do care about me, they do, you just don't understand it," He argues weakly, ashamed that he can't offer a stronger defence for his friends than that. The losers would die for him, almost _did_ die for him- but when was that? He feels small in Sonia's shadow, like he's made of smoldering kindling that could easily be stomped out. He's always felt like this because of her, and it's gotten better in the past few years, he's gotten more independent and learned to stand up for himself more often, but some days he simply doesn't have the energy to fight back so much. 

"Oh yeah? They care about you? Is that why that nasty Tozier boy is always picking on you? Is that why you broke your arm because he was playing too rough? Because he cares about you? Is that right, Eddie-bear? He doesn't care about you at all Eddie, he's _using_ you." She's sunk her teeth in by now, she's just being cruel for the fun of it, for the power. And that line about Richie being the reason he broke his arm isn’t even true, she’d just assumed that and he’d never corrected her because then he’d have to tell her how he _really_ broke it. Though, now that he thinks about it, he can’t really remember exactly how he did break it. Isn’t that the type of thing you should remember? He bookmarks that thought for later.

The thing is, he _knows,_ unequivocally, that his friends love him. He recalls Beverly's soft-spoken advice on the Fourth of July and how proud she'd been when he told her a few days later that he'd come out to Richie. He remembers Bill's knowing look when Eddie had climbed through his window that night with red-rimmed eyes and a stuffy nose, and how he'd moved over in his bed to make space for his friend with no questions asked. He thinks of Stan and Ben bringing him cookies they'd made together when he was locked away because of his mom, and of dancing in Mike's kitchen with blackberry lemonade in one hand and a spatula in the other. 

He's about to reply, about to fight back and yell and scream that his friends _do_ care, that they love him better and more fully than she ever has or will. And then images he can't quite place of Richie holding his face in his hands and begging him to look at him flash by behind his eyelids. And then Eddie remembers Richie telling him to his face that he's never loved, that he doesn't think he's capable of loving. He remembers that Richie's the reason _why_ he had to go to Bill's that night in search of comfort. And that wouldn't be so bad on its own, sure his heart was a little broken by that but he's trying not to be a fatalist about it. But then he thinks about how weird Richie's been around him lately, how he catches him staring constantly and how they've talked less as of late. How things between them have been unusually stilted and awkward, always feeling a little off-kilter.

And he backs down. 

Sonia smiles when he doesn't reply in a way that Eddie knows she thinks is comforting, but in reality all it does is send a shiver down his spine. 

"That's what I thought. Now go to your room, Eddie-bear, it's getting late and you need plenty of rest," She instructs as she steers him toward the staircase with her nails digging into his shoulders uncomfortably. It’s barely 8 pm.

He pulls out his phone as he drags himself up the stairs with his shoulders sloped low, frowning when he sees the several messages from the losers finalizing plans for the night.

**Losvers**

**7:43 pm**

Himbo Denbrough: so whats the plan for tonight

Birdman: movie night??

Beaverly: nah thats boring

Cowboy Grandpa: yeah we did that last week

Megabloks: Quarry?

Bitchie: no offense benny but thats just as boring as movie night

Birdman: hey fuck you

Bitchie: fuk me urself coward

Bitchie: you guys remember that game gravel

Himbo Denbrough: yah why

Beaverly: wut about it

Bitchie: we could play that

Bitchie: but like

Bitchie: xtreme

Bitchie: bc were big boys now

Beaverly: eh hem

Bitchie: and girl

Himbo Denbrough: im down

Cowboy Grandpa: no idea what that is but sure

Birdman: k but where

Megabloks: Faith E has that really big park

Bitchie: wonderful idea benny ur great ily <3

Beaverly: hey back off

Himbo Denbrough: whats with us n churches lately

Birdman: technically the first one was a synagogue

Himbo Denbrough: understandable have a nice day

Bitchie: technically ur a dweeb

Birdman: thats antisemetic

Bitchie: im jewish????

Birdman: ur about to be dead

Cowboy Grandpa: wait wouldnt that b trespassing

Megabloks: No one has to know

Beaverly: Benjamin! :0

Cowboy Grandpa: oh no richies rubbing off on him

Beaverly: he better not be

Bitchie: ooo bad boy benny ;)

Himbo Denbrough: okay so meet at faith e in 30 for gravel?

Birdman: yup

Megabloks: sounds good

Beaverly: yah

Bitchie: its a plan

Bitchie: anyone heard from eddie?

He tries not to let himself be affected by the fact that Richie didn’t use any of his various dumb nicknames as he goes to reply.

**Losvers**

**8:09 pm**

Spagheddie: cant come tonite. sorry guys.

He immediately tosses his phone face down on the bed beside him so as not to subject himself to the endless questions the losers will no doubt have for him. He’s already pissed off and ashamed enough, he doesn’t want to have to answer a million questions about why he’s still letting his mom lock him away.

Needless to say, he groans when Richie’s ringtone sounds loudly in the too-quiet room. He picks it up on the second ring.

“What do you want Rich,” He sighs into the phone before Richie can get in a word.

“Well, hello to you too, sunshine,” He quips immediately. There’s a weighted pause when Eddie doesn’t reply, so Richie hurries to fill in the gap, “You alright, spaghetti?”

Eddie ignores the way his heart tugs at the nickname and the obvious concern bleeding into Richie’s tone. 

“I’m fine, mom just doesn’t want me going out tonight,” He’s being unnecessarily curt, but he’s angry and feeling weirdly guilty, and Richie’s just going to have to endure it. To his credit though, he handles it flawlessly.

“So? That’s never stopped you before, just sneak out,” He suggests lightly, as if it’s that easy to ‘just sneak out’ with a mother like Sonia Kaspbrak.

“I can’t just fucking sneak out, she hasn’t gone to bed yet, she’d catch me,” He hisses into the phone as his grip tightens, glancing over at his bedroom door to make sure it’s fully closed. 

“C’mon, Eds, you’ve done it before. Look, I’m already on my way. I’ll just park a block up and you can tell her you’re going to bed early so she doesn’t try to check up on you. Easy,” He explains breezily, and Eddie hates how tempted he is to give into the idea.

“I don’t know Rich, I don’t wanna get caught and then get locked up for the rest of the fuckin’ summer,” He argues, wavering on the edge of just saying fuck it and sneaking out anyways.

“Please? We’ll just be out for a few hours, she won’t even know you’re gone,” Richie tries, and then, softer, “It won’t be as much fun if you’re not there.”

And how is Eddie supposed to say no to that?

He’s quiet for a moment before he sighs, and he can practically see Richie grinning through the phone.

“Fine, but if I get caught I’m cutting off your balls,” He relents, smiling just a little bit at Richie’s whispered “yes!” coming through the line. 

“Only if you let Bev join, I’m sure she’d love that,” He adds with a laugh, forcing a giggle to bubble out of Eddie’s throat without his permission.

“Gross,” It comes out much too fondly to have any bite to it, “Text me when you get here.”

“I will, be extra sneaky.”

“Will do. See ya in a minute,” Eddie signs off before hanging up and sitting up in his bed, quickly trying to wipe off the lovesick smile stretching his lips. He wraps his comforter over his shoulders and walks out of his room to find his mom, prepared to put on a show.

“Mommy?” He calls as he reaches the bottom of the staircase and Sonia comes into view, back in her rocking chair like their argument never happened. He rubs his eyes with closed fists and continues when she looks up, “I’m gonna go to bed, I don’t feel good.”

“Oh Eddie-bear, I told you you were unwell. Look how pale you are, next time you should just listen to Mommy when she tells you to rest, hm?’ She replies in a smugly satisfied tone, not an inch of concern detected as she continues to stare at whatever game show is playing on the TV, “Get some rest sweetheart, Mommy will check on you in the morning.”

Eddie doesn’t comment on that and simply makes his way back to his room, shutting his door and turning out the lights when he gets there. He’s already dressed from before Sonia banished him upstairs the first time, a light but warm pink hoodie with sunflowers on the sleeves and hood over a simple pair of light jeans. All he has to do to finish getting ready is pull on his sneakers, the ones he uses to go on runs in the mornings, because his nice boots are downstairs near the door and unreachable at the moment. Besides, the sneakers are quieter anyways.

He gets a text from Richie almost as soon as he’s done tying his shoes, and from there sneaking out his window is almost too easy. He’s got a tree next to his window that he’s scaled a thousand times before, and he’s on his feet on the grass outside in less than a minute. He checks to make sure the light in his bedroom stays off and his mother hasn’t come in to check on him before he shoves his hands in the pocket of his hoodie and makes his way down the sidewalk to where Richie’s truck is parked several houses away. 

“Told ya it’d be easy,” Richie grins when Eddie climbs into the truck, his face illuminated in harsh lighting from his phone screen glowing in his hand. The truck is still running.

“Yeah, yeah, just drive Tozier,” Eddie replies shortly as he buckles himself in and resists grinning at his friend beside him.

“Damn, just gimme a minute, you grouchy smurf,” Richie replies absently, typing out something on his phone before tossing it on the seat and flicking the headlights back on. Eddie looks down at his phone when it buzzes a moment later. 

**Losvers**

**8:21 pm**

Bitchie: good news, rescued Rapunzel from his castle, on our way

Eddie tries not to laugh at that comparison, so instead he feigns annoyance like he always does. 

"I'm not fuckin’ Rapunzel, dickweed," He bites out with a glare, watching Richie turn towards him to sling his arm over the seat. 

"Sure you are, spaghetti! An evil mother keeping you locked away from the world until I, a handsome but morally ambiguous street rat, come to save you. It fits perfectly if I do say so myself," He beams with a hand over his chest, and that's when Eddie takes the opportunity to take stock of Richie's horrid outfit in the low light of the streetlamps and the setting sun. 

The shirt is white with the sleeves cut off into one of those stupid tanktops with obnoxiously big armpit holes, obvious from the shaky edges that it's Richie's own doing. The front has "I am 1400 years old and I'm addicted to cool math games,” written down the middle of the chest in a blocky 90s font, each line a different nauseatingly neon color. It's got badly rendered 3d shapes in the middle to compliment it and cool math games is barely readable with the color choice against the checkered background of the site's symbol. The shirt is bad enough, but it's tucked into orange checkered pants that on their own would actually be quite fashion forward, but paired with the tanktop only add to Richie's ever growing collection of intentionally bad outfits.

"Shut up," He replies lamely as Richie puts the truck into gear and starts driving.

"Sure thing princess," He chuckles in response to Eddie's lackluster comeback, turning his attention to the road. 

Eddie tries not to pay too much attention to his thin wrists draped over the steering wheel, or the way his bicep looks pulled taught as his arm is stretched out. It's useless in the end anyways, because he just gets stuck staring at Richie's side through the big hole of the tank top. In the warm light of the sunset Eddie can make out every individual rib of Richie's skeleton, the shadows only making them stick out more harshly in the dark cab of the truck. He's got the window cracked and the wind is playing at his already tousled hair, and there's music filtering through the air from Richie's phone but it's too quiet to be significant. 

It's unfair how pretty Richie looks all the time, but especially at moments like this. Moments when he's wearing a dumb outfit that shouldn't flatter his lanky figure but does anyways, and his messy hair is flying around in his face as he drives the truck that Eddie so adamently despises. He shouldn't look so indie movie beautiful in the setting sun like this, with his sharp profile and crooked but content grin and too-big glasses. But he does anyway, and it's infuriating. 

When Eddie finally tunes back in to the reality around him, he looks up to see Richie staring back at him out of the corner of his eyes. Richie turns back to the road wordlessly as he ups the volume on the music. They don’t talk about it.

They pull up to the church less than ten minutes later, getting briefly lost as Richie tries to maneuver his way around the many roads around the church until he finds the one that leads to the parking lot. By the time he and Eddie hop out of the truck, the losers have already surrounded them to lean on the truck.

“T-took you long enough,” Bill chides with a smile, tugging Eddie to his side with an arm around his shoulder, “You a-alright?” He ducks his head to whisper, grinning when Eddie nods back at him and wiggles out of his grip.

“So sorry, Shawshank Redemption part two took longer than you impatient hoes wanted,” Richie crows as he slams the driver’s door shut, rounding the truck to pull Beverly into a headlock, “Just be glad we’re here and Mrs. K didn’t sit on our dearest Eddie.”

“Ha ha ha, we get it my mom’s a great big fat person! Get some new fuckin jokes already trashmouth,” Eddie mocks as he moves over to the park equipment, immediately beginning to climb up the top of a tube slide. “Now explain how this game works so we can get playing already.”

“Alright so for those of you who may have forgotten,” Bev takes over as she steps onto the playground to explain, “One person who we will refer to as the seeker is on the ground with their eyes closed. We all start on the ground, and the seeker has to spin while they count to fifteen while we all haul ass to find a spot on the playground. The seeker can move wherever they see it fit but they can't open their eyes at all.”

“So like marco polo?” Mike calls from his spot on the bottom of the slide Eddie’s perched on.

“Kinda? So like, the seeker has to keep their eyes closed and feel around for the rest of us. If the seeker tags one of us, the person who got tagged is now the new seeker and a new round starts. Or, if the seeker hears someone moving on the ground they can call gravel and whoever is on the ground is automatically tagged,” Bev continues, swinging down the coiled pole attached to the playground. 

“Wait but what if there’s multiple people on the ground when they call gravel?” Ben chimes in from the sidewalk with his eyebrow quirked and head tilted in confusion.

“Well, Benjamin my love, my favorite way to play it is that if multiple people are on the ground then all of them are seekers for the next round, but it’s up to you losers if you wanna do that or not,” She offers as a challenge, mostly eyeing down Bill and Richie. 

“I’m down for hardcore gravel,” Stan decides from his place on top of the monkey bars, ankles delicately crossed because everything he does is full of poise. 

“So it’s like a clusterfuck of marco polo, tag, and hide and seek basically,” Richie sums up, “Beautifully in depth description of a children’s game Beverly my dear, very detailed,” He only grins when she sends a glare shooting at him from across the playground. 

“So wh-who wants to start a-as the seeker?” Bill questions as the losers all gather on the gravel once again.

“Personally I prefer the term gravel monster, but to each their own,” Richie comments in something edging on a Voice, “I can start, it was my idea anyways,” There are no arguments to that and soon everyone is scrambling for hiding spots as Richie counts down. 

The first few rounds go off without a hitch, and frankly, Eddie’s getting a little cocky. He has yet to be tagged or get called, and as far as he’s concerned he’s been pulling some pretty ballsy moves. He followed Stan around for a good while until having to quickly wrap himself around the outside of a stair railing to avoid getting caught, and he’s even started sitting on the edge of the equipment to dip his toes in the gravel just to taunt whoever is seeking. The rest of the losers are getting a tiny bit annoyed with his arrogance, but it’s making Richie cackle so loudly that it’s making him lose, so it’s worth it.

It’s about six rounds and an hour in when things go downhill.

Mike and Ben are both seeking this round, and Eddie is crouched in the tallest tower of the playground near the slide in case he needs to make an emergency exit. Richie barrels over to him far too loudly, kneeling across from him as he pants heavily.

“What the fuck are you doing trashmouth? This is my spot, fuck off,” Eddie hisses, looking around for whoever Richie was running from.

“Mike’s on my ass Eds, just gimme a sec,” He puffs hurriedly, running a hand through his sweat damp hair. 

“I swear to god if you get me fuckin caught-” Eddie’s cut off by the heavy sound of footsteps climbing the stairs to the tower where the two are seated, and they immediately look to each other with wide eyes. 

“Every man for himself,” Richie grunts in a low gravelled Voice, playfully shoving Eddie to the side as Mike rounds the corner and comes far too close for Eddie’s liking. By the time he gets up from where Richie’s pushed him, Richie is sitting a little further down in the tube slide, effectively blocking the exit for Eddie whilst also protecting himself from being caught once again. Eddie doesn’t lend it a second thought before he quickly climbs up on top of the slide, wiggling around to get himself backwards so he can climb down the outside like a slanted ladder.

And then his foot slips. 

He gasps as he tumbles the eight plus feet to the ground, turning in the air so as not to land flat on his back but not land on his hands either. In the end he lands half on his side, the air knocked straight out of his lungs as he hits the ground with a harsh groan.  
  
“Gravel!” Mike calls out lightly as Bill and the others gasp, the dull _thunk_ sounds of Richie shoving himself the rest of the way down the slide audible through the dead silence blanketing the park. 

Eddie rolls to his side and coughs, curling in on himself as he gasps to get any air back into his lungs. He can’t breathe, can’t seem to pull air through his lungs in any meaningful way, and he loses track of where the breathing turns from initial shock to pure panic. He’s clawing at his chest through his hoodie, choking so aggressively he’s worried he might throw up. He reaches his hand out for Bill as the boy kneels next to him, making a grabbing motion and hoping he knows what Eddie’s trying to get.

“I-inhaler, he needs his f-fucking inhaler!” Bill calls frantically, looking around at the rest of the losers who simply stand empty handed to the side, “F-fuck I dont h-have-”

“I have it, it's okay, I have one,” Richie interrupts, just as panicked as everyone else, as he kneels in the gravel near Eddie’s head, pulling his friend half into his lap as he pulls the spare inhaler from his pocket and holds it to his mouth. Eddie’s hand closes shakily around Richies as he takes three big puffs, greedily pulling the stale air from the respirator and immediately feeling his lungs inflate the way they were meant to. Richie cradles him as he coughs a few more times, curling into Richie’s chest as he finally steadies his breath.

“Look at me Eds, you're okay, you’re alright, just breathe,” Richie cooes softly as Eddie comes back down, a hand cradling the smaller boys cheek, “Look at me.”

Maybe it’s the overwhelming intimacy of the action or the embarrassment of being coddled in front of all his friends- though it’s most likely the flashbacks of Richie saying those same words in a much scarier, though hazy at best, situation- but suddenly Eddie can’t stand to be held anymore. He pushes out of Richie’s hold a little too harshly, shakily getting to his feet with a helping hand from Mike who’s finally caught onto the situation.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” He dismisses weakly as he brushes the dust off his jeans and hoodie, stretching his arms above his head and grimacing at the tender ache of his muscles as his ribs expand with every breath, “Can we just move on please?" He pleads with a wince, choosing not to acknowledge the way Richie's still staring at him from his place on the ground. 

"I th-think that's enough g-gravel for ton-night," Bill decides, running a hand through his hair and melting into Mike’s side when the taller boy pulls him closer.

“Well I don’t want the night to end just because I had a little fall,” Eddie frowns, tossing a pleading look to Bill, “We can just do something else, right?”

“Yeah but what? We already ruled out movie night and the quarry,” Mike reminds, wrapping his arms around Bill’s chest and resting his head on top of the shorter teen’s.

“Uh, I know an abandoned house a little outside of town we could go to?” Bev suggests meekly, clearly aware of the way the idea of an abandoned house sends a collective chill down all their spines.

That exact chill is what causes Eddie to steel himself and cross his arms, declaring with his chest, “Let’s do it.”

Richie’s the first one to look at him like he’s crazy, though the rest aren’t that far behind.

“Uh, Eds, you feelin’ alright? Did you just agree to going to an abandoned house?” He questions incredulously, finally standing to his full height instead of continuing to kneel in the gravel.

“I’m fine, asswipe. Who knows, it could be cool,” He tries to play it off like he's genuinely interested and not just trying to posture and prove himself, but he’s not sure it’s working too well, "And don't call me Eds." 

Nevertheless the losers acquiesce and divide into cars once again, Bill leading with Bev in the back seat of his car.

Once again, Richie and Eddie stay silent through the majority of the car ride, though heavy glances are constantly thrown in each other’s direction. The air feels static in the worst kind of way. Stan is in the car with them and tries to make conversation once or twice, but is content to stop trying when he realizes that he’s getting nowhere.

Eddie chooses to turn his head out the window and watch the darkened fields and occasional streetlamp flicker past. He thinks of the way Richie held him to his chest, cupped his face and instructed him to breathe, like he was protecting him from… from nothing at all. And he knows Richie was trying to help, _did_ help, but Eddie can’t help the anger that blossoms in his chest, the vines coiling around every individual rib until his chest is full of it and he can feel it spreading into his throat. He doesn’t want to be babied, not tonight, not ever. He’s sick of being _fragile_ , of being looked at like thin glass teetering on the edge of a mantle, of being treated like he can’t take care of himself and know his own limits. He is not sick, he is not weak, he is not the things Sonia Kaspbrak works so hard to make him believe he is. And for one night he wants to feel like it, be a little reckless and maybe he gets hurt a bit but who cares? The rest of the losers get banged up all the time, it’s never a big deal for them, so why should it be for him?

He gets the answer to that question almost as soon as he steps foot in the dilapidated farmhouse. It’s a small white house in the middle of a field that Mike is convinced probably has foxes or raccoons running around somewhere, and even from the outside it’s immediately clear that this is less of an abandoned house and more of a hazard site. Ben wisely decides to stay back on the outside of the house while the rest of the losers venture forward, cautiously making their way inside despite every logical sense telling them not to.

Eddie’s already freaking out a little bit having gone past the destroyed porch outside the door, using his phone flashlight to be as careful as he could be as he climbed past the splintered wood and rusted nails. His panic only heightens when he steps inside and sees the veritable war zone that makes up the interior of the house.

There are pieces of drywall and insulation scattered all over the floors, graffiti littering the walls with all sorts of gibberish and tags that Eddie isn’t even going to pretend he understands. The ceiling looks like it’s been picked for scraps at that point, and it’s more than clear where all the drywall on the floor came from. There’s still a refrigerator and a stove in the kitchen, though they're both so old and covered in dirt that they’re hard to identify. Eddie yells at Richie when he tries to open the fridge and they all seem to come to the same conclusion that that’s actually an awful idea. The stove has no stove grate around the burners, but it is absolutely covered in matches, which doesn't make any of them feel any better. 

Eddie is trying to talk himself down from the edge of a hypochondria induced panic attack when Richie wanders over, hunching over and ducking his head low in the stupid way he’s gotten into a habit of doing because of their height difference.

“Are you sure you wanna be here, spaghetti? We can leave if you want, I know this shit freaks you out,” He offers innocently, pointing his thumb toward the door. And maybe it’s the sickly sweet concern in his voice that sounds too much like Sonia or the fact that he’s just genuinely trying to protect Eddie again, but something about it rubs the wrong way at his already frayed nerves. 

“I’m fucking fine,” Eddie snaps with a glare, stomping away from Richie and over to the narrow staircase at the back of the living area. He places one hand on the stair rail and looks up the well into the blackness of the attic, gulping at how intimidating the steep staircase seems with so little light. But the little voice in his head that sounds like his mom is telling him that this is an awful idea, that he’s going to cut himself and get tetanus or sepsis or AIDs or any other number of fatal diseases, so he swallows down the fear stinging at his jaw muscles and turns to the losers with a smirk, “Let’s go upstairs.” 

“Do _not_ go upstairs!” Ben calls from outside, unknowingly adding fuel to the fire at Eddie’s feet pushing him to go upstairs. 

“Oh I’m definitely going upstairs,” Bev breathes with a mischievous smile, skipping over to link arms with Eddie at the base of the steps. 

“You don’t get to have fun without me, I’m coming with too,” Richie declares with an almost unnoticeably wary glance at Eddie, coming to stand behind Bev and folding himself in a bow with one hand on his chest and the other extended, “Lead the way your majesty.”

Annoyed by Richie’s insistence on coming with Eddie charges up the stairs with Beverly behind him, the stairwell so narrow that they wouldn’t be able to walk next to each other if they tried. He pulls out his phone halfway through when it gets too dark to see properly, shining his phone’s flashlight at the attic as he reaches the landing. Bev and Richie squeeze past to stand on either side of him as they survey the room. 

The attic is somehow simultaneously empty of anything substantial and full of clutter that doesn’t help the already claustrophobic atmosphere. There are old and slightly soggy cardboard boxes pushed up against the far wall in stacks that go up to the slanted ceiling, and trash and newspaper scraps scattered around the floor. In the center of the room near the staircase there’s a small gas lamp and several half empty water bottles surrounding a green sleeping bag with a pillow at the top that’s still dented in the middle from recent use.

It takes them all a little too long to connect the dots, but when they realize the implications of the setup, Eddie lets out what he will adamantly defend as a _very_ manly shriek. He shoulders past Richie and Bev on his way back down the stairs, taking them two at a time and almost tripping when he gets to the bottom. He only stops for a second to look at the other losers before his face flushes a bright red and he storms the rest of the way out of the house. They follow him out as he stumbles his way over the broken porch, accepting a helping hand from Ben when he gets to the edge where the stairs have caved in. 

“W-what happened?” Bill questions as he rushes to catch up, that same concerned glint in his eyes that makes Eddie’s molars grind. 

“There was a fucking squatter’s nest up there! Jesus christ I can’t _believe_ I let myself be dragged into that-that fucking crack house! Do you know how many diseases you can get from rusted nails?” He’s all the way gone at that point, stumbling over his own words as he chops his hand in the air next to his face, “You can fucking die from tetanus! Or get like, fucking seizures and shit and- and what if one of those nails had blood on it or something? I could get AIDs, or- or _Ebola!_ You know Ebola make you bleed out of your fuckin eyes? I could-” His breathless tirade is cut off by Richie gripping his shoulders and ducking his head once more to make eye contact. It's not good for his spine, he could pull a muscle or give himself chronic neck pain for the rest of his life just because he wants to be close-

"Hey, spaghetti, you gotta breathe man, you're fine, no one was even up there! It's all good-" Eddie can't bear to listen to _more_ of Richie's endless babying, pushing him away and raking his hands through his hair shakily to scratch at his scalp. 

"No it's not fine! And would you stop fuckin- fucking saying it's fine because it's not, and I-" He cuts himself off with a harsh breath before he can say something he'll regret, "Can we just- can we fucking go home? Please?" When he finishes he looks around at his friends with a tired plea, feeling raw and ugly for such an intense outburst showcased by the poorly hidden shock on each of the losers’ faces. He tries hard to avoid looking at the hurt furrowing Richie’s eyebrows.

“Yeah, uh,” Richie breathes shakily, rubbing a hand over his eyes beneath his glasses, “Yeah I’ll take you home, Bev and Stan are coming too so...” He trails off lamely, looking to the other proposed passengers with a look like he’s asking for help. Neither seem to know much more about what’s going on than Richie himself. 

“Actually, I think I just wanna ride with Bill,” Eddie admits quietly, wrapping his arms around himself and refusing to look up at Richie. It’s a stupid thing to put so much weight into, but Richie _always_ takes Eddie home. It’s just a small detail that developed as soon as Richie was able to drive, and Eddie knows that breaking that unspoken rule is going to hurt Richie in some way or another. But if he rides with Richie that means they’ll talk in his driveway, and Richie will ask what’s wrong, and Eddie doesn’t have the self control nor the energy to have that conversation in any civilized form.

“Like hell you are,” Bev cuts in, volume and light tone extremely inappropriate for the quiet and heavy atmosphere. 

"Why not?" Eddie breathes through gritted teeth, frail patience wearing thin. 

"I am absolutely not getting into a car with Richie unless you're there, he'd get us killed before we even got out of the parking lot," Stan answers for her, drawing Eddie's annoyed attention unto himself instead. 

"What the fuck are you talking about? Richie's not even a bad driver," Eddie questions with irritated confusion, tapping his foot with his anxiety to get moving. 

"Dude, he's a fuckin psychopath," Bev corrects, "You just don't see it because he drives more carefully when you're there. Last time I drove alone with Richie he turned a corner going 35 and almost flipped the fucking truck."

It takes Eddie a second to process what Bev's just told him, but when he does the losers can practically see the smoke coming out his ears. 

"You've gotta be _fucking_ kidding me!" He shouts as he throws his hands up, storming over to Richie's truck without another word and slamming the door shut when he climbs in. The losers look around at each other in equal confusion. 

"So uh," Richie starts awkwardly just to fill the thick silence, "We still on for game night on Friday?"

* * *

Eddie's about ready to explode by the time they pull into his driveway, the headlights turned off so Sonia has less of a chance of noticing them. It doesn't really matter, she's almost certainly dead asleep anyway. Richie doesn't shut the truck off this time.

Eddie is sitting as far away from Richie as possible in the small space of the truck, pressed up against the door with his foot bouncing and arms tightly crossed over his chest. He lets go of his white knuckled grip on his own sleeve to reach for the door handle without a word, when Richie grabs at his sleeve with a desperate look.

"Eddie, please-"

Eddie rounds on him before he can get another word out. 

"You know what? No! No, Richie, I'm not gonna fucking sit here and talk to you like nothing happened. I'm pissed off and in pain and fucking tired and I don't want to sit here and be your fucking therapist like every other god damn time, Rich," He bites out harshly, his words loud enough in the cab to hurt both their ears. He sees Richie flinch at the last sentence, but he looks away. He's speaking so quickly it's hard to understand, and he's absolutely fuming as he stares at the hand that grabbed him still hanging in the air. It drops to the space between them. Music plays softly in the background, but Eddie doesn't care. He doesn't know the song anyways. 

"I just wanted you to have fun with us, Eds, I'm sorry," He replies weakly, lips down turned and shoulders low. Eddie sees the metaphorical tail between his legs and bares his teeth anyways. 

"Would you stop fucking calling me Eds?" He bites out cruelly, though he doesn't really mean it, "I don't _care_ what you wanted Richie, I _told_ you I didn't want to fucking sneak out! Now my back is killing me and my mom's gonna fucking notice and what if-" His mom's argument from earlier seeps in, "What if I broke my arm again, huh? What the hell were you going to do if I fell and broke my fucking arm again? You're always so fucking reckless, so careless, Richie, but you never wanna deal with the conseque-"

"I'd carry you out like I did last time," Richie grumbles under his breath with his eyes cast down, so quiet that Eddie's almost not sure if he was meant to hear it. 

"What?" He asks exasperatedly, annoyed at Richie cutting him off. 

"If you broke your arm again, I'd fucking carry you out just like I did last time," He says, the tone so low that it stops Eddie cold in his tracks as memories fly past too quickly for him to grab ahold of, "I don't even fucking know what happened tonight Eddie, you're making it sound like it's my fucking fault you fell when I didn't do shit! I asked you to sneak out because I know you hate being trapped in the house, and it sucks that your mom got mad at you but that doesn't give you an excuse to take it out on _me._ I'm sorry I tried to fucking cheer you up but I really don't understand how _I'm_ the bad guy here," He finishes hotly, ripping one hand through his tangled curls while the other white-knuckles the steering wheel, visibly shaking with the frustration coursing through his veins straight to his unsteady fingertips.

"I don't need _you_ to cheer me up, Richie, I'm perfectly fucking capable of handling myself. I don't get why you're always trying to protect me from everything when you _know_ I don't need you to!" He's shouting now, and he doesn't know when his voice raised that much but he's powerless to stop it. His chest burns with it, his hands shaking and he feels slightly like he isn't himself, like he's watching from an outside perspective as he finally boils over.

"I do it because I care about you Eddie, is that a fucking crime now?" Richie's voice cracks and he just looks so, so, so tired, but his lip still curls and his words still cut anyways. 

"I never asked you to care about me Richie!" Eddie yells, heart in his throat as he tries not to think about the last time they were in the car like this. _Does that make me a bad person?_ Richie's voice asks so vulnerably in his thoughts, and Eddie can taste the bile rising in his throat. 

"Then why the fuck are you still sitting in my car?" Richie shouts and Eddie flinches, so unused to Richie being genuinely angry with him. It's rare that Richie even gets annoyed with him- that's always been Eddie's thing anyways- let alone for him to actually shout. For all his excitability and uncontrollable energy Richie has never been quick to anger, Maggie's steady patience deeply embedded in his bones.

Eddie stares silently while he catches his breath, anger still sharpening his tongue as he takes in Richie's slightly disheveled appearance. His hair is sticking up at odd angles where he's been tugging at it, his eyebrows pulling down harshly enough to scrunch the bridge of his nose. The cut in his bottom lip that's been reopening every year since he busted it open when he was seven is bleeding where he's bitten too sharply at the skin. Richie lets out a shaky sigh, turning his gaze away from Eddie with the fragile sort of self control that makes him look so much like Wentworth in that moment that it's almost dizzying. 

"Just get out of my car, man. I'm too tired for this shit right now," He sounds so resigned as his gaze falls to his lap that the aching in Eddie's spine renews tenfold. 

The song changes. Eddie knows this one. The gentle acoustic and slow beat fill the silence in the car, the humming far gentler than anything either of them have produced thus far. He feels the weeds suffocating him begin to wither. 

_We were playing twenty-one_

_In the pitch black of a country night_

"I've always really liked this one," Eddie murmurs as a peace offering, glancing over at Richie with guilty eyes, hugging himself for the smallest source of comfort. 

_I was stuck like a drum_

_And I rolled my eyes tryna sit tight_

"Yeah, me too," Richie replies absently, still refusing to look back at his friend in the passenger seat. Eddie squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head away for a moment, sucking in a deep breath in a desperate attempt to ground himself. He opens his eyes after a second and swallows thickly to choke down the butterflies in his throat before he scoots over on the bench to sit directly beside Richie. Their thighs press together as Eddie hesitantly rests his head on the taller boy's shoulder, frowning when he feels Richie go stiff beneath him. But he doesn't push Eddie away, and that's a start at least. 

_I was dangerously tangled_

_Second time I met you_

"I'm sorry," Eddie whispers as he curls further into Richie's side, letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding when Richie's hands drop to his lap and his muscles relax.

"Me too," He breathes , wrapping an arm around Eddie's shoulders to pull him the tiniest bit closer as he closes his eyes. 

_Now I'm so impatient to adore you_

"Rich?"

"Yeah?"

Eddie pauses before he asks, "Do you think I'm fragile?"

_I crashed my car last night_

"No, spaghetti, of course not," Richie coos gently, moving back enough to look down at Eddie without disrupting his head's resting place, "You're the strongest person I've ever met. I'd never call you fragile."

Eddie swallows back tears and nods.

_We were drinking warm wine_

_From paper cups that we left outside_

"Then why do you drive more carefully with me than with everyone else? And- and carry my spare inhaler when you know I don't need it?" Eddie counters quietly, trying to avoid coming off as combative as he looks up at Richie with his big brown doe eyes.

From this close, Eddie could count his freckles like stars on a clear night if he wanted to. God, he really wants to. He banishes that thought from his head before it can really take root. 

_God I wished you were mine_

"Just because you don't have asthma doesn't mean you don't need your inhaler sometimes, Eds. And I drive better with you around because I don't wanna freak you out. I know how you are about cars, I want you to feel safe with me. You _are_ safe with me," He murmurs, bringing a hand to Eddie's face to tuck a stray curl behind his ear. The action is far too tender, and Eddie looks away as scarlet warms his cheeks. Richie turns his face back with the hand cupping his cheek, "Look at me Eds. I know you can take care of yourself. You're _not_ fragile."

_As your skin lit up in the sunrise_

"If you know I can take care of myself then why are you still so protective of me?" Eddie asks with a silent plea in his eyes, skin burning where Richie's hand still cradles his face. 

Richie pauses for a second, a contemplative look that's hiding something just beneath its surface crossing his face before he smirks kind-heartedly. 

_I was dangerously tangled_

_Second time I met you_

"I already told you, spaghetti," He smiles as he removes the hand cupping Eddie's cheek to ruffle his hair, "It's because I care about you."

_Now I'm so impatient to adore you_

"I'm sorry for being such a dick tonight," Eddie frowns, feeling guilty for his multiple outbursts, "And I'm sorry if I ruined your night."

_I crashed my car last night_

"It's alright Eds, I get it. Must have been one hell of a fight with Mrs. K though, I haven't seen you that angry since she tried to make you quit track," He chuckles humorlessly, his hand still lingering in Eddie's hair. 

_So dangerously tangled_

_Second time I met you_

"Yeah, it just- sometimes it feels like she knows exactly what to say to break me. I hate it. I know I'm not weak, but she makes me feel like I am," He admits as he looks down and away from Richie, partially from shame and partially to hide the blush threatening to take over his whole face if Richie stays this close for much longer. 

_Now I'm so impatient to adore you_

"You're not weak, Eddie, don't ever let her take that from you. You're the bravest person I know," Richie replies as he ducks his head to try and keep eye contact, smiling a toothy grin when it works. His hand drops from Eddie's hair finally, though it instead comes to rest on the side of his neck. 

_I crashed my car last night._

Eddie's breath catches at their proximity. Their noses are only a few inches apart, and Eddie can feel Richie's breath as his hand sears into the skin at Eddie's neck. For a brief, blissfully terrifying moment, he thinks Richie might be about to kiss him. 

And then he pulls away. 

The song fades out with Eddie's fluttering heart and turns into a gentle piano melody, the soft voice soothing the burn of disappointment in the back of Eddie's throat as Richie scoots away slightly. 

"You should get inside Eds, wouldn't want the lovely Sonia to catch us out here now would we?" He offers weakly, his smile plastered on and so minimally different from the gentle pull of it's predecessor that it crosses the territory into uncanny. 

"Yeah, I guess I should," Eddie replies, trying not to sound too disappointed as he begins to scoot away. 

"I'll see you Friday?" Richie calls as Eddie reaches for the door. 

"Yeah, of course," Eddie confirms as he turns back, searching Richie's face for something he's not quite sure of, "Oh, and Rich?"

"Yeah?" He doesn't get much time to think before warm lips brush his cheek as Eddie leans back into his space, small hand gripping onto his shoulder for a brief second before all the warmth is gone.

"Thank you," Eddie smiles before climbing out of the truck and holding the door open, "Goodnight Richie."

"Night Eds," Richie replies on autopilot as his brain works overtime to bring him up to speed, distantly processing Eddie shutting the door and walking around the side of the house where the window to his room is. Richie watches him go, his fingertips lifting to the skin Eddie had just blessed. 

He catches his own gaze in the rearview mirror.

"Fuck."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love this chapter vv much 😌💕 I'm hoping to be able to update this fic once a week until it's done, maybe a little more often? 
> 
> Also sorry about turning this into a chat fic for a fat second there lmao
> 
> Let me know what you guys think!!


	3. When The Party's Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Movie night in the losers club is not a subject to be taken lightly. 
> 
> Unfortunately, this week is Richie’s turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from When the Party's over by Billie Eilish  
> Link to story playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2HQahc38s39UPciv5W3RxQ?si=UdA_mKsqQAK6njlj9m8OUw

Movie night in the losers club is not a subject to be taken lightly. 

Though there’s never been a designated day of the week for movie night, it’s happened every week since the original four boys can remember. They rotate who gets to choose the movie for the week, and as the losers club grew in numbers, as did the importance of every choice. Eventually it got so disorganized and caused so many arguments that Stan began keeping a calendar to keep track of who’s turn it was every week. The order of rotation is as old as the losers club themselves and goes as such: Bill starts off the rotation- of course- followed by Eddie, then Stan, then Richie, with Richie going last every rotation for obvious reasons. And then, as the other losers joined their group, they were added to the rotation- in chronological order, of course. Ben, and then Bev, ending with Mike.

Unfortunately, this week is Richie’s turn.

By the time Eddie finally makes it over to the Tozier residence, most of the other losers have already arrived. He walks around the corner of the house to the backyard where he could hear music playing, Richie’s too-loud laugh bubbling through the air like the main melody. When the yard containing his friends comes into view he sees Mike and Ben talking to Wentworth on the porch, presumably demonstrating the new grill he’s agreed to let them use for burgers. Richie’s off somewhere in the yard talking to Bev and Bill, and Stan has yet to make an appearance.

It doesn’t take Eddie long to decide which group to join as he walks further into the back yard. He makes his way up to where Richie is boisterously ranting to Bev and Bill with his back turned to Eddie, waving his handw frantically to help make his point. 

“-just saying, Soda Streams are gonna do for soda what 3D printing did for assault rifles,” Is apparently the rant that Eddie walks into, raising an eye at Bill around Richie’s gangly form as the taller boy still hasn’t noticed him walk up.

“What the absolute fuck are you on about?” Eddie asks from behind Richie, smirking as he watches the other boy practically jump a foot into the air at the sudden noise. Bev and Bill snicker as Richie whips around to face his smaller friend, startled expression melting into a grin as soon as he sees Eddie.

“Eddie my love, you made it!” He beams as he leans into Eddie’s space, and Eddie waits for the punchline, for a mom joke or some exaggeratedly flirtatious gesture, but none comes. Eddie coughs and narrows his eyes at the slightly stilted nature of the interaction. He slides away from Richie and his off-white grin to stand closer to Beverly where she and Bill are already casting twin glances in his direction.

“Uh, yeah. Where’s Stan? He’s usually one of the first ones to show up,” Eddie observes, looking around as if that would make Stan suddenly materialize in front of them. 

“Oh, I think he’s picking up Patty,” Bev chimes in from beside him, drawing Eddie’s attention away from Richie, “Do you think it’s gonna be weird having someone else here for movie night?” It would be the first time any of them brought someone outside of the losers club to a movie night, but Stan raved about her and it’s definitely the happiest they’ve seen him in months, so they allowed it. Eddie wouldn’t necessarily say he’s psyched that Stan invited the girl he’s dating to movie night, but he’s not about to voice his opinion either. Besides, the reasoning is based on nothing but the selfish knowledge that if Stan brings Patty, then Eddie and Richie will be the only single losers in the entire group, and he doesn’t want to have to confront that reality just yet. 

“It’ll o-only be weird if we m-make it weird,” Bill decides from the other side of Beverly, shooting a warning glance in Richie’s direction. 

“That means keep your trap shut, trashmouth,” Bev helpfully clarifies, pointing an accusatory finger at the aforementioned trashmouth.

“Sorry babe, can’t help it,” He grins more naturally this time, “Shit-talkin’s just in my genes,” He clasps his hands behind his head and rocks back on his heels, effectively drawing Eddie’s attention right toward his chest, and that's when he  _ really _ takes Richie in. 

Richie’s worn his fair share of dumb outfits in the past several months, and each one has driven Eddie mad in a wonderfully painful variety of ways. But this time, oh  _ this time is so much worse. _ Eddie honestly feels a little blindsighted at the fact that he didn’t notice the outfit any earlier, considering how hard it is to tear his eyes away now that he has. Richie’s black top sports endless crying-laughing emojis and an explosion behind text that reads ‘who did this?’ in bold white font. That in itself would be nothing out of the ordinary, except that the shirt is  _ cropped _ to end right below his ribs.

And maybe, just maybe, Eddie could handle that on its own, could handle Richie in a crop top and jeans or whatever else he might wear. Except that it’s 87 degrees out- far too hot by Maine standards-, and even Richie isn’t crazy enough to wear his regular dark jeans in that sort of heat. No, no Richie is wearing jean shorts, accented by the  _ bright pink fishnets _ that are making Eddie’s vision absolutely swim. Richie had mentioned that he had a ‘special outfit’ planned for this particular hang out, and Eddie had been prepared for more stupid shirts and ugly pants, but he could have never anticipated this. The shorts ride a little low on his hips- Eddie has to forcefully tear his eyes away from the dark trail of hair beneath his belly button- but the fishnets make up for it, the elastic band at the top resting snugly around his waist. With the way Richie’s arms are stretched above his head, the croptop is riding up even more, and Eddie has to mentally take stock to make sure he isn’t actually foaming at the mouth like the feral raccoon he’s currently channeling emotionally. 

“Where the fuck did he even  _ get _ fishnets?” Eddie whispers more to himself than to anyone else, but Bev snorts next to him nevertheless. 

“Fucker stole them from me yesterday, and honestly? I’m kinda pissed that they look so good,” She whispers back as the two of them completely tune out whatever topic Richie and Bill have moved onto. Richie settles his hands on his hips and Eddie’s eyes track the motion, traveling over the exposed skin of his hip bones and stomach and catching on the elastic of Richie's boxers peeking out just above the waistline of the jean shorts. Richie’s stomach isn’t toned and carefully sculpted but it is undeniably strong, lean in the same way the rest of him is- all long muscle and sturdy bone. Eddie can’t help but feel a little underdressed in his tank top- well,  _ Ben’s  _ tank top, and it's more like a dress on him anyhow- and running shorts, but in his defence, it’s hot out and he didn’t expect Richie to come out looking like  _ that _ . Though, honestly at this point he should know not to expect anything less. Lesson learned. 

“I think I need to sit down,” Eddie mumbles when Richie grins at Bill and runs a hand through his curled knots, ignoring the knowing cackle from Bev as he grabs at her upper arm for support. 

“Oh no, what the hell are you wearing?” Comes the defeated drawl of Stan behind them, bringing all their attention to where he’s standing with his arms over the shoulders of a smiling girl with tightly curled brown hair. Patty snickers and waves at them timidly, grinning when Richie turns toward her with his widest smile.

“I’m guessing you’re the Richie character I’ve heard so much about,” She smiles warmly when Richie steps forward.

“What gave it away? Is it my outfit? I bet it's the outfit,” He decides as he nods sagely, “Trashmouth Tozier at your service, my dear,” He beams at her, leaning over to rest his elbow on Eddie’s head where he’s come to stand beside him. Eddie shoves him with a grimace before turning to Patty with a soft smile, sticking his hand out.

“Ignore him, nothing he says is valid,” He ignores Richie’s offended ‘hey!’ as he continues, “I’m Edward- uh, Eddie, nice to meet you,” He fumbles through the greeting awkwardly, blushing as Richie snorts behind him.

“Nice to meet you too, Eddie,” Patty replies smoothly before turning to introduce herself to Bill and Beverly as well. Eddie huffs out a breath and shakes his head to himself as Richie prances over to be in front of him.

“Oh, Sir  _ Edward _ , so lovely to meet you,” He mocks in the most posh British voice he can muster, hand over his chest as he bows low. Eddie pushes him off balance with a scowl, rose dusting at his cheeks at the laughter blooming from Richie’s chest when he lands on his ass. 

“I’m gonna end your bloodline Tozier,” Eddie hisses as Richie stands and dusts himself off, grinning wolfishly as he brings himself back into Eddie’s space.

“If you wanted to get to my dick ya coulda just asked, Eds,” He winks as he lewdly grabs at his crotch, cackling at the raging blush taking over Eddie’s cheeks as he scoffs and storms away, mumbling ‘beep beep’ to himself with the irritated knowledge that it won’t change much. He stomps away from Richie and over to the porch where Mike and Ben have finally gotten the grill working. 

“I hate him so much,” He declares as he comes to stand beside Ben, cheeks still unrelentingly red as Ben chuckles and slings an arm around his shoulders affectionately.

“We know Eddie. Now, what kinda cheese do you want on your burger?” 

Eddie runs a hand through his hair and glances over his shoulder, catching Richie staring back at him with an unreadable expression on his face as he mutters, “Pepperjack.” 

Ben hums as he lowers his arm and adds the pepper jack to a burger patty that's sizzling on the grill, and Eddie's eye catches on the hot dogs beside it.

"Oh I didn't know we were doing hot dogs too," Eddie adds as more of an off-handed comment than anything.

"We're not, those are some kosher hotdogs Stan brought along for him and Patty," Mike explains as he cuts an onion to the side of the grill, "Are you gonna want your onions grilled or raw?" 

Eddie’s setting up all the sides on the picnic table when Patty wanders over to him, watching Stan tiredly try to pull Richie away from where he and Bill are attempting to joust with barbecue skewers. 

"You think we should help him?" She asks with an affectionate smile as she tilts her head. 

"Probably, but it's more fun to just watch it happen," He decides as he crosses his arms, smiling contentedly when Patty giggles next to him.

“How long have all of you guys known each other?” She asks without taking her eyes off Stan, who seems to have given up trying to stop Richie and Bill and instead has taken to cheering them on from his seat in the grass. 

“Well Bill, Stan, Richie, and I have been friends since like kindergarten, but we met Bev, Mike, and Ben the summer after 8th grade year,” He explains as his gaze rests solely on Richie and his criminally long legs, covered in a light layer of dark hair and flexing every time he lunges at Bill, “We all just kinda click, ya know? We’re basically family.” 

Patty hums contentedly before snorting and covering her mouth as they watch Stan trip Richie with an outstretched leg, sending him tumbling backwards as Bill cheers victoriously. He and Patty laugh from across the yard as Bill steps forward and points his skewer directly at Richie’s chest, grinning like a madman while Stan cackles beside them. 

Bill backs up and takes Richie’s hand to pull him back to his feet, gasping and shouting when Richie takes the opportunity to catch him off guard and steal his skewer before taking off to run over to where Bev is sunbathing in a lawn chair. Bill doesn’t bother to chase him and turns his interest to Stan as Richie leans on the skewer like a cane and talks to Beverly, pressing a smacking kiss to her cheek when she hands over a scrunchie that had been on her wrist. Eddie feels his tongue get heavy and his mouth fill with cotton as he watches Richie pull his hair up into a bun, his triceps sharply defined where they’re being stretched by the action. The sun hangs low in the sky now, glowing behind Richie and presenting him in an almost holy light, haloing the curls he’s busy trying to tame. Eddie can’t tell if it’s the beginnings of a sunburn warming his face when Richie looks up and catches him staring, grinning in his direction and waving over-enthusiastically before Beverly kicks him in the thigh.

“He’s such an idiot,” He mutters with a fond smile, the sentence coming out far more soft around the edges and affectionate than he intended. 

“How long have you and Richie been together then?” Patty asks innocently when he turns back to her. Suddenly his heart is in his throat, the rapid beating echoing in his ears as he looks to Patty with a startled expression. 

“Wh- what do you- uh, we’re not like, dating, we’re just friends,” Eddie hurriedly clarifies, eyes wide and hands flailing as Patty’s smile falls. 

“Oh! Oh my gosh I’m so sorry I just thought- the way you guys were acting I just-” She stutters and nervously tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, “I shouldn’t have assumed, I’m sorry.” 

“No, no it’s okay its just that we’re not-”   


“Alright guys, supper’s ready,” Mike calls from the porch, unknowingly providing a convenient out to an incredibly awkward conversation. Patty and Eddie simply smile shyly at one another before turning away to go fix their plates, subconsciously coming to the same conclusion that it would be best to just drop the subject and pretend that specific conversation never happened. 

Richie walks up behind him as he’s adding pickles to his burger, tugging on the strap of his tank top and leaning far too close for Eddie’s hyperaware senses.

“This is real cute on you spagheds, when’d ya get it?” He practically purrs, sliding behind Eddie to attempt to wrap his arms around the smaller boy’s waist. Eddie sees Patty glance at them from the corner of his vision and that’s all it takes to have him wriggling out of Richie’s grip. He makes sure to put a good amount of space between them and adamantly ignores the crestfallen look that flashes across Richie’s features before quickly being replaced by something lighter. Eddie gets the distinct feeling that he wasn’t meant to see that transition.

“It’s Ben’s, I borrowed it after our run this morning,” Eddie explains timidly, carrying his plate over to find his spot at the picnic table with Richie following behind him. He’s not carrying any food, but Eddie decides not to comment. 

“Oh, I didn’t know you two’ve been hangin’ out,” Richie replies as he takes his seat next to Eddie at the table, and there’s something in his tone that Eddie doesn’t quite know how to identify. 

“Yeah, we go on runs together pretty much every morning. He wants to join track next year so I’m just helping him get his endurance up,” Eddie explains as he loads his plate with the fruit salad and coleslaw Mike brought along. He waits for a joking reply, some sexual twist to Eddie’s very intentional use of the word endurance, but none comes. Richie simply nods next to him, pouring himself a glass of strawberry lemonade and keeping his mouth shut. 

If it were just the two of them, Eddie would already be annoying an explanation out of him, getting into his space to bug him about whatever it is that’s so obviously weighing him down today. If it were just the two of them, he might already be resting his head on Richie’s shoulder or running a thumb over his permanently scraped knuckles the way he knows calms Richie down. But then Bev laughs, and Eddie remembers that it’s  _ not  _ just the two of them, that their other friends also require his attention. So he drops it for the moment, and promises himself that he’ll bring it up later when the others aren’t around. The losers and Patty gather around the table to eat and socialize, and Richie sips at his lemonade, and they don’t talk about it. Eddie thinks that maybe they’ve been doing that too much lately, but the thought leaves his head as soon as Bill pulls him back into conversation. 

By the time they all huddle in the Tozier’s basement to finally watch whatever movie Richie’s chosen for them this week, Richie seems to be pretty much back to normal. His basement has two armchairs and a small sofa, and they all cram into them the same way they normally would, though the sofa is a little more cramped than usual with Patty’s added presence. Bill and Mike crowd one armchair while Ben and Bev mirror them in the other, leaving the other four of the group to the sofa, though Richie stands in the middle of the room instead of joining them on the couch.

“What m-movie are we w-watching?” Bill asks the question they’re all thinking from his place curled into Mike’s side. Richie grins in response, and Eddie doesn’t have to hear the choice to know he’s going to hate it. 

“Well my dearest Billiam, I’m  _ so  _ glad you asked,” He smirks and rubs his hands together like a wartime era devil in a cartoon, “Before I reveal this week’s movie choice I would like to remind you that the door to this basement is locked and there are no windows. You’re stuck here until I so graciously decide to let you out.”   
  
“Are we watching Saw again? Because you’re making it sound like we’re gonna watch Saw again and I'd just like to remind everyone that we watched Saw less than a month ago and Ben cried,” Stan helpfully points out, drawing small laughs from Patty and Bev as Ben’s face floods beet red.

“I did not  _ cry _ watching Saw-” Ben tries to defend, but Richie makes a dramatic gesture in his direction and he twists his mouth shut, pouting as he leans back into Bev’s embrace with his arms crossed over his chest. 

“No Staniel, we aren’t watching Saw today. What we’re watching is gonna be so, so much worse,” Richie grins something wicked as some of the losers groan around him, and Eddie grabs a handful of popcorn from the bowl he’s precariously balancing in his lap.

“Just start the movie already dickweed,” He bites as he tosses the popcorn in Richie’s general direction, snickering when a piece lands on his hair back towards where it’s tied up. He grimaces before picking the stray kernel out of his hair and throwing it back, hitting Eddie directly on the tip of his nose.

“Once again I reiterate: impatient hoes. Anyways, today we’ll be watching, pause for dramatic effect,” He does as he says, looking over each of the losers with a growing smile before his gaze settles directly on Eddie’s scowl, “The Emoji Movie.”    
  
Richie happily relishes in the mournful groans and complaints of his friends, catching the pillow Stan throws at him and hugging it to his chest with the dopiest smile Eddie’s seen all night, and he hates that his heart flutters at the expression. Beside him Eddie hears Stan offer to take Patty home right then, and she politely reminds him of Richie’s earlier warning against escape attempts. Stan sighs, but he’s smiling. 

Richie’s dramatics last a few more minutes as he searches for the movie on Netflix, but as soon as the white intro screen comes on he throws the remote as far as he can across the living room before shoving his way between Stan and Eddie with the same delighted smile. Eddie tucks his knees to his chest and pushes himself as far from Richie as the space of the sofa will allow, angling himself with his feet toward Richie before the other boy can even think about putting his arm around him. If Richie notices the intention behind the action he doesn’t mention it, but if the brief frown tugging at his profile is anything to go by, he noticed.

The movie plays on but none of them are really paying attention, Eddie least of all. At some point he and Richie switched props, with Eddie now clutching the pillow to his chest and Richie devouring whatever’s left of the popcorn they started out with. They’re all throwing popcorn at the screen or talking over the characters every few seconds to try and get in their own jokes and comments, any laughter coming less from anything the movie produces and more so from their mockery of it. 

Though the others are at least watching closely enough to ridicule it, Eddie can’t honestly say that he’s absorbed a single second of the movie whatsoever. He blames the mess of limbs bundled next to him for his shortened attention span, though he knows that Richie is only a part of it. Eddie can’t help himself from peeking over the edges of his pillow every so often to quietly observe Richie beside him in all his technicolor detail. His hair is starting to curl out of the messily collected bun he’s pulled it into, and Eddie can tell by the light smatterings of stubble around his jawline and chin that he didn’t shave that morning. He’s given up on sitting in any remotely polite manner and instead has taken to spreading his legs out in front of him in all their fishnet wrapped glory. The hand that isn’t curled around the popcorn is resting at the top of his stomach, fingertips just slightly hidden underneath the hem of his shirt, and that draws Eddie’s eyes lower to the main source of distraction. 

Eddie’s always liked Richie’s build- thin but broad shouldered in a way that makes him seem bigger than life- but he’s always had a particular soft spot for Richie’s stomach. His baby fat melted away when he shot up in height, leaving behind nothing but sharply defined ribs and a small pouch at the bottom of his stomach. His stomach isn’t concave in the way one might expect looking at him- Eddie would badger him about eating more if he didn’t already know how much Richie can devour in one sitting- but his hip bones are no less visible because of it. With the way Richie hunches when he sits and the band of the fishnets digging into his waist, his stomach is rolled in a way that Eddie can’t manage to tear his eyes away from. His stomach’s covered in the same dark hair that Eddie knows is on his chest as well, and he makes a mental note to thank Bev later for lending Richie the fishnets that are steadily chipping away at his self control. 

In the end it’s not Richie catching him staring that makes Eddie finally turn his gaze away, but rather the sound of Ben laughing that draws him back to reality. He looks up to see Beverly curled in Ben’s lap laughing at whatever comment has the rest of them laughing as well, and he feels a small pang of longing in his throat. His eyes sweep the room only to find Bill and Mike in a similar position across from them, and Stan smiling sweetly to himself with his arm wrapped comfortably around Patty’s shoulders. 

And then there’s him and Richie.

His thoughts can’t help but linger on the way Richie’s been acting the past few weeks, so casual around the group as though nothing’s wrong but stilted one-on-one, as if he can’t quite figure out how to interact with Eddie the way he normally would. He’s been more hands on than ever but at the same time more distant than he’s been in years, like he’s scalded any time he gets too close but can’t keep himself from putting his hand back on the stovetop. He’s seemed all at once subdued and far too lively, his emotions flickering past so quickly that it doesn’t seem he even has a hold on them. He’s been hard to pin down in every sense, somehow always forgetting to reply when Eddie asks him to come over or hang out just the two of them, but always managing to stay present in the groupchat like nothing could take him away from it.

The worst part is that Eddie doesn’t really know what he’s done wrong, how he’s managed to finally drive Richie away after every awful thing they’ve endured together. He has an idea of what it might be, but the thought that Richie may have finally caught on builds so much anxiety in the pit of his stomach that he feels the need to throw up, so he avoids going down that path. He tries not to take it personally, tries to listen to Bev when she says that he just needs a little space, but the hollow ache making its home behind his sternum grows bigger nevertheless.

The reminder of Beverly brings his eyes back up to the happy couple, whispering something to one another in their own little world that secludes them from the rest of the losers. Bev and Ben are the only losers that he’s openly talked to about his feelings for Richie, and he’s been spending an increasing amount of time with the two of them. He never explicitly told them the depth of his affection because they made it clear they already knew, but that was part of the reason it was easier to talk to them about it than any of the others. He didn't  _ have  _ to spell it out for them, to admit out loud how well and truly gone on Richie he is. They know to some extent- especially Ben- what it’s like to pine after someone that you know in some capacity that you can’t have, to smother a hopeful heart beat every time it speeds up in the other’s presence. The best thing about Bev and Ben is that they’re the ideal, breathing proof that the perfect outcome is achievable, that the ending can be happy. The pessimist in Eddie taunts him often that he and Richie are a different story, that they in all likelihood are not the gentle version of that story. Ben reminds him just as frequently not to dwell on the negatives. 

He and Ben in particular have been near inseparable over the past few weeks. Though he wasn’t lying when he said that he runs with Ben to help prepare him for track, it would be disingenuous to say it's a one sided exchange. Their morning runs have come to serve as a daily therapy session for the both of them, time to ventilate the emotions building heat in their chests. Because Beverly may know what it’s like to love wholly, but Ben understands better than anyone what it’s like to crave that love like a suffocating man craves air. Bev is always a reliable shoulder to cry on, armed with endless sympathy and genuine advice, but Ben is the empathetic hand he needs to ground him when his thoughts spiral out of his control. 

He realizes he’s zoned out staring at Ben and Bev when Richie nudges an elbow into his side, giving him the same unreadable expression he’d seen earlier in the night though this time it’s laced with apparent concern. 

“You okay Eds? You seem pretty out of it tonight,” He murmurs worriedly, an air of caution to his voice like he’s treading deep water and a single misstep will plunge him into the deep end. 

“Hm? Oh yeah, I’m fine, just- tired. I’m just tired,” Eddie assures with a surface level smile that does nothing to stir confidence, “And don’t call me Eds.”

“Okay, if you’re sure,” Richie concedes hesitantly, eyes carefully searching for the crack in the foundation, “Hey, would you maybe wanna stay over tonight? Like, just us since we haven’t really hung out that much lately?”

His heart skips a beat but his smile falters, close-lipped and more a product of politeness than excitement. He’s torn between the pull in his chest that’s been screaming for weeks for genuine alone time with Richie, and the instinctive knowledge that it’s an  _ awful  _ idea.

“I’ll ask my mom,” Is the simple reply he settles on, though that in itself is a thinly veiled rejection. From the looks of it, Richie knows that too. But he doesn't object, doesn’t point out that normally Eddie wouldn’t ask his mom, he’d wait until she’s asleep and then text her that he’s staying with Bill to avoid any argument. 

He simply turns back to the movie and leans further towards Eddie, head falling back against where his legs are hugged to his chest. He tries not to notice the way Richie always subconsciously sits leaned toward him, as though his body can’t bear to be more than a few feet away at any given time. 

Eddie texts Sonia asking if he can stay with Richie, knowing full well she’ll say no. She doesn’t take long to follow through.

**Eddie > Mom.**

**9:48 pm**

Eddie: can i stay with richie tonight?

Mom: No. Be home before 12. You need rest.    


He sighs in relief, though he does his best to mask it as irritated disappointment. 

“No dice,” He mutters, fist clenching against his shin to resist from tangling his fingers in the mop of frizzy curls splayed against his knees. Richie hums as his shoulders slump and he sits up.

“Home before midnight?” He asks as quietly as he can, stretching his arms over his head in a way that tugs his shirt up to just below his pecs and steals the breath straight out of Eddie’s lungs.

“Uh- yeah, yeah home before midnight,” He chokes out as he tries to keep his eyes from following the thin line of muscle definition at the top of Richie’s stomach. Richie rolls his head to the side to crack his neck before sitting back against the couch, suddenly  _ much  _ closer than Eddie was attempting to keep him. He’s got his arm thrown over the back of the couch suspiciously close to where Eddie’s shoulders are, with his ribs pressed against the smaller boy’s side in a way that can’t be comfortable. His hand closes over Eddie’s ankle and before he can object, his leg is pulled from his chest to rest over Richie’s thighs before he guides the other into the same position. Like this he’s practically sitting in Richie’s lap, unwillingly nestled into his side with his legs stretched across the other’s thighs. 

“There, that’s gotta be more comfortable right? You looked way too stiff man, chillax, enjoy yourself,” He suggests so casually in his bad Hollywood impression of a stoner, as if Eddie’s face isn’t blooming with reds and pinks that would make carnations jealous. He promptly ignores the flame licking at the bottom of his spine and the tops of his ears as he looks back at the screen, desperate to ignore the way Richie manhandling him makes his throat feel like it’s closing up a little bit. He doesn’t reply, just clears his throat turns, back to the movie, and pretends he doesn’t feel Richie’s hand wrapped around his calf, thumb lightly gliding over his shin.

He gives the movie a fair shake if only to distract him from the very persistent thought gaining real estate in his mind that Richie wouldn’t pull him that close if he didn’t  _ want him  _ that close. It’s an obvious but dangerous thought, because he’s learned at this point not to try and read Richie Tozier based on his actions. His actions are contradictory and flippant on the best of days because he simply does whatever sounds best in the moment. Richie probably doesn’t mean anything by it, so Eddie tries not to read too deep into it. It doesn’t stop his hands from shaking the next time he reaches for the popcorn though. 

By the time the credits roll, Eddie realizes he didn’t digest a single scene. He figures it isn’t that much of a loss anyways.

“Do we w-wanna call it a ni-night?” Bill questions even though the answer is almost undoubtedly no, considering it's only half past ten. 

“We could, or we could watch Boss Baby,” Richie suggests with a grin as he drums on Eddie’s legs, “That was my second choice,” He stage whispers to the boy he’s using as a makeshift drum set. He cackles when he’s met with a unanimous ‘No!’ from the rest of the room. 

“Patty, when do you have to be home? Maybe we could head over to Honey’s for a bit for that late night diner vibe?” Bev suggests as she combs a hand through her hair, instinctively reaching for the scrunchie that was once wrapped around her wrist before glaring when she realizes Richie still has it. 

“I don’t have to be home til midnight, I love Honey’s so I’m totally in,” Patty replies with a smile, lifting her head from Stan’s shoulder and tucking a stray curl behind her ear. 

“Midnight for me too, I’m definitely down for Honey’s,” Eddie weighs in as he stretches to bend his back over the arm of the couch, grunting softly when he feels his back pop along his spine. He quickly pulls his legs out of Richie’s lap to place his feet flat on the floor when he realizes that his stretch brought Richie’s hand up from his calf to rest just above his knee instead, and the feeling of his fingertips on the inner part of Eddie’s thigh burns hotter than hellfire.

They discuss it a little more before they’re all scrambling up the stairs and piling into cars, and Eddie’s almost certain that Bev and Ben are plotting against him because he somehow ends up alone with Richie in the truck. 

He sits against the door with his head leaned against the window, counting the lamp posts as they pass and listening to the dull tapping of Richie’s fingers on the steering wheel. Normally he’d savor any moment of silence he could get with Richie, but the lack of banter feels heavy and unnatural on his shoulders, makes the setting of his jaw feel too tight as his molars grind together. He shivers and wraps his arms around himself, lifting his head off the chilled glass of the window and silently regretting his outfit choice. He vaguely thinks that Richie must be suffering similarly if not worse, but he knows that Richie is too stubborn to cover his carefully curated outfit with a jacket. He’s never really bought into his mom’s religious teachings but he’s close to praying for Richie to cover up  _ something  _ before Eddie finally goes insane. It would be completely useless anyhow, Richie’s never really believed in God anyways and probably wouldn’t listen even if he did. 

"If you're cold I'm pretty sure my jackets under the seat," Richie offers offhandedly, far too soft around the edges for what Eddie’s heart can handle. He thinks he already feels a little warmer at the simple suggestion. 

“Which jacket? Cause if it’s the denim one I’d rather die than put that on,” He objects even as he folds over to blindly search for the jacket under the bench, allowing himself to believe the blood rushing to his cheeks is from his position rather than the idea of wearing Richie’s favorite jacket. His fingers brush against the stiff denim and he frowns, pulling it out and sitting back up to hold it out in front of him. 

The jacket had been plain when he’d bought it and in the six months he’s owned it he’s managed to cover damn near every inch in patches. The back panel is a cartoonish black and white print of a mildly off-putting opossum surrounded by trash, the words ‘live trash worship trash’ bracketing the design at the top and bottom- though Richie’s very obviously scribbled ‘mouth’ after each ‘trash’ in his instantly recognizable chicken scratch. Across the shoulders above the back panel he hand stitched “LOSERS CLUB” in white with a red V covering the s, somewhat of a symbol for their little friend group after Gretta Keene scribbled on Eddie’s arm cast and the rest of the losers adopted the term with the red v over it to comfort him. 

Each patch covering the front panels had a meaning, however obscure. Eddie only knew the meanings behind six of the patches on the jacket, because as Richie had explained, he had a patch to represent each of the losers. He’d taken up the hobby of making his own patches about halfway through the process of locating the right patch for each loser, because he grew frustrated with not being able to find designs he had in mind for his friends. The premade ones consisted of video game health-meter hearts with a little health missing stitched above the left breast pocket for Ben, and a childish patch of Funshine from the Care Bears for Mike directly parallel to Ben’s on the right panel. Stan had insisted on making his own, and Richie had compromised saying that if Stan was going to make himself a bird patch, it had to be a Great Tit. Bill’s was the first that Richie made on his own, and it was- supposedly- Gizmo from the Gremlins, even though it more so looked like a pool of melted chocolate and vanilla ice cream. Bev’s was a cartoonish cloud with a smiley face raining flames, and she’d helped Richie make it, which was probably why it looked so much better than Bill’s. Last of all, Eddie’s patch consisted of a green jalapeño in flames. It was the last to be added because Richie insisted he had to make the perfect patch, and it took up the center of the breast pocket on his left side. Directly over Richie’s heart. 

“You don’t have to, obviously,” Richie stumbles out as Eddie weighs his options, “I just don't want my lil’ leftover spaghetti getting cold.”

Eddie can’t help but snort at the absurdity of the comment, banter so achingly  _ normal  _ as opposed to the stilted conversation that’s become commonplace between the two over the past few weeks that he almost can’t find it in himself to argue the nickname. Almost. 

“ _ Never  _ call me leftover spaghetti again, literally what the fuck is wrong with you,” He chastises half-jokingly as he shoves his arms through the sleeves of the jacket. He breathes in the scent of Richie’s cologne clinging to the rough denim as it blankets his body, sleeves long enough to cover his hands. He thinks he probably looks like a toddler trying on their parent’s clothes, narrow shoulders dwarfed by a broader silhouette and material long enough to cover half his thighs. Between Ben’s shirt and Richie’s jacket, Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever felt smaller in his life. He’s undeniably warming up as he hugs the jacket closer to himself, fingernails lightly tracing the outline of his patch. Maybe he’s starting to see why Richie loves this jacket so much, though he’d never admit that out loud. 

Their conversation somehow devolves into a debate over which foods are the worst when reheated, with Eddie adamantly arguing that spaghetti is barely edible before being reheated, let alone after, and Richie passionately countering that he’d rather eat a lukewarm brick than take a bite of reheated steak-  _ “They’re basically the same thing!”  _

The drive to Honey’s is by no means a long one and they pull into the parking lot behind the others in the middle of their heated discussion. 

They bring their debate up with the others as they all move through the parking lot with the same pack formation as always. Eddie spots the exact moment the waitress inside catches a glimpse of their incoming group, because through the window he watches her lean backwards and let out what appears to be a profoundly mournful groan. Honey’s is a 24 hour diner, but he can’t help but feel a little guilty for barging into an otherwise peaceful diner with an eight person party at damn near 10:30 at night. Nevertheless she smiles and politely seats them at some tables in the back corner of the restaurant before taking their drink orders, so he makes a mental note to be sure to badger the losers at the end of the night to be sure they all tip her well. 

Eddie and Patty are the only ones to order just water for their drinks, and Stan and Richie each notice immediately. Richie yawns ‘Booooring’ at the same time Stan quietly asks Patty if he can get her some lemonade.   


“You’re not even gonna get a milkshake Eds? C’mon, you love the peanut butter banana one,” Richie prods from beside him, sharp elbow digging into Eddie’s rib cage as he squirms to get away from it. 

“Get your bony-ass elbows away from me,” He hisses as he scoots closer to Bill beside him, “And I don’t have any money or I would,” He explains, mourning the beloved milkshake. In hindsight it was probably a dumb idea to agree to coming to a diner with no money on hand, but he didn’t mind it much. Any excuse to spend time with the losers is a good excuse. Richie frowns.

“I can pay for ya if you want spaghetti,” He offers with furrowed brows and a kind glint in his eyes. Eddie refrains from scolding the nickname only because of the generous nature of its context.

“It’s fine, I’m not that hungry anyways,” Eddie turns him down with a soft smile as a thanks, but Richie’s frown doesn’t lessen. He tries to tune out Stan and Patty having a similar discussion on the other side of the table, Patty insisting that she pay for herself and Stan arguing that he’s more than happy to pay for her. 

“Seriously Eds, I don't mind. Look, I kinda want a milkshake too so we can just get one of the big ones and split it since you never finish yours anyways,” Richie compromises before moving on without giving Eddie the room to argue, “And you’re just gonna get that wrap thing anyways right? Those are super cheap, just lemme cover it.”   


Richie’s clearly already set on paying and Eddie would put more effort into arguing if he weren’t already drooling at the thought of his usual wrap. He justifies the second meal to himself with the promise that he’ll only eat half the wrap now and save the rest for tomorrow. 

“Fine,” He sighs in feigned annoyance, hiding a small smile when Richie grins at him with his buck teeth. When the waitress returns to take their food order Richie makes a show of ordering for Eddie- a turkey avocado wrap with light mayo and a spinach tortilla- and ordering a large peanut butter banana milkshake with two straws. Eddie valiantly attempts to stomp out the fire heating his cheeks, but in the end all he can do is let it burn and avoid eye contact with Patty.

The chatter between the losers resumes as they wait for their food, completely uninhibited in their noise-making due to the lack of other customers in the diner. The atmosphere easily cultivates conversation, lighthearted jokes traded between them and Patty slotting into the group as smoothly as any of the rest of them had. At some point Richie attempts to sling his arm over the back of the bench seat behind Eddie and his arm falls to Eddie’s shoulders instead, but Eddie’s flying high on the laughter of his friends and the peanut butter banana on his tongue, so he doesn’t correct it. 

It’s only when Eddie looks around that he feels something heavy pang in his chest. Bill covers his smile with his hand as he snickers at something Stan said, head resting atop Mike’s shoulder and hands joined beneath the table. Stan sits with his arm around Patty’s shoulders and she leans into his embrace, umber curls pressed to his smiling cheeks. And he can’t see to be sure, but Eddie’s almost certain Ben and Beverly are setting the same way they always do when next to each other, legs hooked together at the ankle like an anchor keeping the other from floating off into the clouds. 

In the deep recesses of his mind- a place he vehemently avoids- a thought occurs that likens he and Richie’s position to that of Stan and Patty, and he refuses to entertain the thought before shutting it down entirely. But there are some thoughts that persist even through deliberate rejection, and the stubborn idea has already left its mark on his consciousness whether he acknowledges it or not. Truth be told, he hasn’t stopped thinking about the similarities since Patty’s mischaracterisation of he and Richie’s relationship. The parallels are as present as they are frustrating, because as much as Eddie would like to read too far into it and determine that Richie  _ must _ reciprocate his feelings, he  _ can’t _ . Because Richie expressly told him he  _ doesn’t  _ feel that way about him- about anyone- and never has. 

It’s this line of thought in particular that's made spending time with Richie even harder as of late. Because as much as Eddie adores him, craves his presence, longs for his attention, actually being around him is another story entirely. Because with every casual touch and cherubic grin comes the painful reminder of their context, the ‘just friends’ label branded on heated skin by slender fingertips. Richie is a double-edged sword that Eddie repeatedly cuts himself on, knowingly wrapping his hand around the blade just to get a shot at making the taller boy smile. 

He knows he needs to get over it, knows it's a futile pursuit that'll only end with him hurting at the end. But the hidden optimist in him that sounds a lot like Ben whispers that he might have a chance, and it's enough to keep him chasing anyways, any scrapes and bruises he gains when he inevitably trips marked as necessary collateral. 

After a while Richie seems to notice Eddie's absence from the conversation and draws him back to earth by smearing the whipped cream from their milkshake over his upper lip as a moustache, putting on his best old man voice to lecture him about table manners. Eddie snickers and calls him an idiot, but he can't help the thought that this is what makes the chase worthwhile, burning lungs and all.

* * *

Eddie feels light on his feet as the losers spill into the parking lot of the diner, crickets chirping in the cool night breeze that carries their laughter up into the stratosphere. He’s got Richie’s arm hooked around his neck and the denim jacket dwarfing his torso and he’s too elated to shy away from the touch, clumsily leaning into the warmth of Richie’s torso as they stumble giggling over to their cars. He makes sure to tease Richie about having smelly armpits just to keep up appearances- surprisingly he doesn’t, and Eddie plans on taking it to his grave that he feels a little dizzy off the scent of Richie’s cologne on the jacket and on Richie himself- though he receives a hearty hair ruffling in retaliation. 

They gather around their parked cars to talk a little more before they'll all be forced to separate for the night, and Eddie breaks away from Richie’s hold when Ben beckons him over while Bev quickly swoops in to distract Richie with a new conversation. 

“You alright man? You’ve seemed kinda spacey all night,” Ben murmurs when Eddie comes to stand in front of him, tilting his head down and to the side with furrowed brows. The smile Eddie’d been sporting melts off his lips and he looks away from Ben’s worried puppy dog eyes, letting out a small huff of a sigh. 

“I’m fine, it’s just hard to be around all these couples when me and Rich are the only single ones, ya know?” He explains quietly as he scratches the back of his neck, glancing back over his shoulder and quickly turning away when he sees Richie already looking in their direction, once again with that indecipherable furrow to his brows, “Especially when he’s being so affectionate. I don’t know, it’s stupid. It’s like I wanna be around him so badly and I want his attention all the time but then I start thinking about what we  _ could _ be and it just- it comes crashing down so quickly because he’s not gay. He’s not gay and he doesn’t feel the same way and we won’t be anything more than we are now and it just sucks. It just really fuckin’ sucks.”    


“Oh Eddie,” Ben frowns, and it would feel patronizing if it were anyone but Ben, “Are you  _ absolutely sure _ he doesn’t feel the same way? I mean, the way he acts with you- he doesn’t act that way with any of the rest of us. Like, Riche’s an affectionate dude but he’s always been a little  _ more _ affectionate with you, ya know? Maybe it’s just a misunderstanding,” He tries to offer hopefully, with the same unwavering optimism that Eddie loves him for. Unfortunately, Richie had been pretty clear about his lack of a love life. 

“I mean he literally told me he doesn’t think he can love, I don’t really see how that can be a misunderstanding,” It comes out more bitter than he intends but Ben just smiles sympathetically and lets it roll off his shoulders with no hard feelings. 

“Maybe just talk to him about it again? You don’t have to pour all your feelings for him out but it can’t hurt to make sure, right?” He suggests, and Eddie loves and hates how simple it sounds coming from Ben’s gentle faithfulness.

“You’re right, can’t get any worse than it already is, right?” Eddie sighs with a small smile, though Ben frowns.

“That’s not really what I meant-

“Eds! You ready to go?” Ben’s correction is cut off by Richie’s call, effectively ending the long winded pep talk Ben was undoubtedly about to give.

“Yeah, gimme a sec,” Eddie tosses over his shoulder before turning back to Ben with an apologetic smile, “That’s my cue. Look, I’ll talk to him a little and if anything happens I’ll tell you tomorrow, alright?” 

“Alright, but call me if you need anything, alright? I’ll see you tomorrow morning?” Ben confirms, holding his arms out to offer a hug.

“Of course,” Eddie smiles and accepts his offer, tightly squeezing his friend around the torso and feeling a little tension melt from his shoulders as Ben hugs back.

He and Richie say their final goodbyes to the rest of the losers before climbing into the truck, once again just the two of them. Eddie sits closer to him than he needs to- not quite touching but closer than he did on the ride there- though if Richie notices, he doesn’t point it out. Eddie clutches his leftovers and the jacket closer to him and smiles contentedly to himself as Richie pulls out of the parking lot. 

“Thanks for dinner Rich,” He yawns happily as drowsiness seeps through his skin and weighs down his limbs, and he allows himself to lean his head back against the seat. 

“Don’t sweat it Eds,” Eddie’s got his eyes closed but he can hear the gentle smile in Richie’s tone, and he lets himself doze off for the remainder of the ride home. 

He comes to a few minutes later to a hand running through his hair in a way that nearly lulls him right back to sleep. He rubs his eyes, fighting to lift heavy lids enough to make sense of his surroundings. The truck is pulled into his driveway with the engine already turned off, and Eddie lifts his head from it’s solid resting place only to realize he’d been napping with his head on Richie’s shoulder. His eyes widen and his cheeks warm as he sits up a little too quickly, backing up a little further than necessary to get Richie’s hand out of his hair as well. 

“Good mornin' sunshine,” Richie chuckles lowly in his chest, the sound traveling down Eddie’s spine in a spiral that makes him shiver.

“Shut up,” Eddie mutters lamely as Richie’s chuckle turns into a full bodied laugh.

“Don’t let me interrupt your nap spaghetti, I’m just lettin’ you know you’re home,” Richie murmurs gently in his warm baritone, and Eddie pulls the jacket closer to himself to excuse the heat that spreads from his chest at the sound. 

“But I’m comfortable,” He whines, shuffling the smallest bit closer to Richie and hesitantly placing his head back on his shoulder, melting into it when Richie wraps an arm around his back and readjusts so there isn’t too much of a strain on Eddie’s neck because of the height difference. Richie simply hums in response. 

“Did you have fun tonight? I thought it was pretty good,” He decides as his hand finds its way back to the hair at the nape of Eddie’s neck. Eddie registers the soft pitter patter of the song quietly filling the cab of the car and closes his eyes for a moment to bask in the gentleness of the atmosphere.

“Yeah it was pretty good for the most part,” He wagers, turning to nose into Richie’s shoulder a bit. He chalks up his own above average comfort with being so affectionate to the fact that he's too tired to be shy and simply lets himself enjoy their proximity. 

“For the most part?” Richie questions as cautious concern bleeds into his tone.

“Can’t really say watching the Emoji Movie was all that enjoyable,” Eddie reminds him.

“Hey it wasn’t  _ that _ bad, and besides, you were barely watching,” Richie accuses, and Eddie goes a little stiff at the fact that Richie noticed his spaciness throughout the night. Apparently he was far more obvious than he’d like to think. 

“Yeah, I guess I’ve been kinda out of it tonight,” Eddie admits quietly to the small space between him and Richie, almost hoping that if he says it quietly enough then Richie won’t hear him and he won’t have to find a way to tiptoe around what’s actually upsetting him. 

“Are you havin’ a bad day?” Richie asks gently, leaning his head down to try and catch a glimpse of Eddie’s features. He turns his head away in hopes that Richie won't be able to read him so easily. He vaguely registers the humming of a new song starting, and lets out a heavy breath. 

_ Don’t ya know I’m no good for you? _

“I guess so? I don’t really know, it’s kinda stupid,” He tries in a last ditch attempt to get Richie to drop it, but Richie simply stays silent and waits for him to continue, so he does, “There’s a uh, a guy I kinda like?” He phrases it like a question like he could possibly be unsure of how he feels towards Richie. He feels something sharp stick in his throat as he swallows and decides to stop there when he feels Richie’s shoulder tighten under his cheek. 

_ I’ve learned to lose you, can’t afford to _

“Oh, uh, is it somebody I’d know?” Richie asks a bit awkwardly, like he’s talking around a bubble.

"Yeah,” Eddie nods breathlessly, bracing himself to be pushed away, though Richie doesn’t move at all. He’s not sure if Richie just hasn’t caught on or if he has and he’s too nice to do anything about it, and he doesn’t know which he’d prefer at that point.

_ Tore my shirt to stop you bleedin’ _

“That’s cool?” He offers like a question, as though he’s unsure how he should respond. Eddie snorts.

_ But nothin’ ever stops you leavin’ _

“Yeah, it would be if he actually liked me back,” He chuckles humorlessly, frowning a bit when Richie mirrors him with a painfully insincere version of his own laugh. He does his best to swallow down the nerves threatening to collapse his lungs and follow Ben’s earlier advice. He turns his gaze down to Richie’s legs, tracing the delicate pattern of the fishnet weaving back and forth atop pale skin.

_ It’s quiet when I'm comin’ home _

_ And I’m on my own _

“Oh. So, like, you’ve talked to him about it?” Richie asks, something about his tone feeling tight as it shifts higher.

_ I could lie, say I like it like that, like it like that _

“Um, not really? But I know he’s not gay, so,” Eddie trails off, playing with the sleeves of the denim jacket and shivering a bit at the cool air surrounding them. Richie hauls him a little closer.

_ I could lie, say I like it like that, like it like that _

“Oh,” Richie repeats, stilted in the oh so familiar way Eddie’s come to despise recently, “I’m sorry man, that sucks.”   


_ Don’t you know too much already? _

“Yeah, it does. And like, I don’t know, being around all those couples tonight just didn’t help I guess. Being around him in general lately just kinda makes me feel shitty,” Eddie admits quietly, hands clenching to fists when he feels Richie’s thumb rubbing patterns into his side. It feels like too much, a stinging reminder that this is platonic, nothing more to Richie than the affection he’s always readily given out to his friends, and Eddie feels a little bit sick. He sits up and pulls away from Richie’s grip, curling his knees to his chest instead in a desperate attempt to keep the warmth he felt in the taller boy’s grip. 

_ I’ll only hurt you if you let me _

“So it’s like… one of the losers?” Richie prods after a moment, unoccupied hands moving to pick at the leather on his steering wheel once again as he stares blankly out the windshield. In a distant part of his mind, Eddie makes a note to tell Richie to buy a cover for the wheel at some point. 

_ Call me friend but keep me closer _

_ (Call me back) _

“Yeah I mean, who else would it be, right?” Eddie laughs weakly, resting his chin on top of his knees and studying the scuffed toes of his shoes. He feels smaller like that, as if the cab of the truck could swallow him without a trace, and part of him wishes it would. 

_ And I’ll call you when the party’s over _

“Yeah,” Richie agrees absently, brows furrowing as his eyes seemingly track a moth flying in front of the car, “Why’s it hard to be around him? I thought you liked him.”

_ Quiet when I’m comin’ home _

_ And I’m on my own _

“I do, it’s just- he’s  _ so  _ affectionate like all the time, and part of me loves it but then it just reminds me that he doesn’t see me like that and- and it hurts, ya know? Because he basically told me he doesn’t like me and never will and like- why would he?” He laughs wetly, startled to realize he’s teared up at some point in his rant, “Who wants to date a fuckin’ hypochondriac freak with mommy issues? And all of the losers are dating now and tonight just- it almost felt like a date night ya know? And for a second it’s nice to pretend but all it does is remind me that it’s not real and- and I lov- I care about him, I really do, but being around him makes me feel like shit sometimes,” He roughly wipes away the tears gliding down his ruddy cheeks, praying that Richie hadn’t noticed the way he tripped around the word love like it got stuck on his tongue. 

_ I could lie, say I like it like that, like it like that _

“You- you love him?” Richie asks with a hitch in his breath, and Eddie’s heart is hammering against his ribs as punishment for not being careful enough with his words. 

_ I could lie, say I like it like that, like it like that  _

He turns to rest his cheek on his knees and runs his eyes over the silhouette of the boy next to him, tears still clouding his vision as they well up in the corners of his eyes and spill sideways over the bridge of his nose. Richie sits far too rigidly in his seat, staring straight ahead like he might break if he looks anywhere else. Eddie can see the way the muscle of his jaw tenses in the low yellow light of the driveway, can almost feel the phantom pain in his molars where he knows Richie’s grinding his teeth together the way Went gets on him for. He seems like a ghost in the driver's seat, demanding space without really filling it, absent though he’s physically there. He seems almost shut down, like the muscle twitching under his eye is the last remnant of his emotional availability. His hands shake where they pick at the steering wheel, and Eddie wonders where the smiling boy from the diner disappeared to. 

_ But nothin’ is better sometimes _

But even in stillness Richie Tozier hums with the vibrancy that Eddie can’t seem to get enough of. His hair spirals out from his head wildly with no consideration for direction, coiling around his ears and curling at the nape of his neck. The knob of his jaw sits tightly shut but gently curved nonetheless, high cheekbones casting shadows even in the dim light. His long neck curves softly to wide shoulders and a solid chest, and Eddie is once again reminded of the ridiculous outfit he’s adorned for the day. His soft stomach rolls over the elastic of the fishnets, and Eddie thinks for a moment that he’d like to run his fingers over the ridges of his hip bones. 

_ Once we’ve both said our goodbyes _

It’s as his eyes trail over the boney elegance of Richie’s hands that he finds himself breathing out, “Yeah. Yeah, I do.” 

He thinks his eyes might be playing tricks on him when he notices the way Richie’s breath stops at that. But the way his nose scrunches as if in pain and the shuttering breath he lets out is certainly real, at least.

_ Let’s just let it go _

Richie finally tears his eyes from the windshield only to look down and close them instead, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows like he’s trying to find the courage to say what he wants to. Eddie almost hopes he doesn’t find it. He takes in a shaky breath and turns to where Eddie’s curled up in his passenger seat

_ Let me let you go _

“Eddie, I-” He’s cut off by the sharp  _ bzzt _ of Eddie’s phone at the same time the light over the garage flickers on and off repeatedly.

_ Quiet when I’m comin home _

“Oh shit, that’s my mom, I have to go,” He rushes out breathlessly as he scans the too-bright screen of his phone, looking to Richie with wide eyes.

_ And I’m on my own _

“But- Eddie, wait, I-” Eddie doesn’t let him finish before he’s reaching for the door handle and hopping out of the truck, turning back to Richie with an apologetic smile as the still-flickering garage light casts shadows over his tear stained features. 

_ I could lie _

“I’m really sorry Rich, I’ll text you tomorrow?” He offers hopefully, stomach sinking at the way something dark flashes over Richie’s features before he plasters on a too-wide grin.

_ Say I like it like that _

“Yeah, ‘course. But I’m goin’ outta town tomorrow, so don't be surprised if you don’t see me for a while,” His tone is too light for the conversation they were having, the lilt feeling unsettlingly overcompensating. Eddie frowns.

_ Like it like that _

“Oh, you didn't mention that at all,” He points out with furrowed brows, heart beating slowly but heavily, as though its working overtime to keep him steady. Something about Richie’s demeanor makes him feel a little nauseous. 

_ I could lie _

“Yeah, Mags wants to go visit some family in Portland for a few days, I don’t know. You should hang out with Ben or something, I know you two are close,” He suggests innocently enough, though something about it makes Eddie’s stomach churn.

_ Say I like it like that _

“Uh, sure,” He drawls with a furrowed brow, sighing when he hears the front door open, “Gotta go. Night, Rich.”

“Goodnight Eddie,” Richie returns without missig a beat, and even as he closes the truck door and turns to head inside, something in his chest screams at him to go back. He stomps it down with the explanation that he’s just being paranoid, and heads inside the house where Sonia waits for him.

_ Like it like that. _

The song slows to an end, and Richie waits until Eddie disappears inside to slam his forehead against the steering wheel and scream. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this one was heavily delayed, this chapter is MASSIVE and I also had quite a bit of trouble with writing it the way I wanted to. As always massive thanks to @himbotozier on Tumblr for being my wonderful beta, thank them for the fishnets 😌


	4. Funeral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So it's summer, so it's suicide, so we're helpless in sleep and struggling at the bottom of the pool" - Richard Siken.  
> \---  
> It’s been six days of radio silence from Richie, no texts or calls or pictures of stupid billboards he saw on his way to Portland.
> 
> “Maggie?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: multiple panic attacks, references to suicide/suicidal ideation, references to self harm, explicit discussion of suicide and a suicide attempt, medical drug overdose, mixing alcohol with medicine, discussions of hospitals  
> **If there are any I may have missed please let me know in the comments  
> **Read end notes for a lil pick me up 😌

Eddie lies on his back in bed, his bedroom darkened with only the sounds of his ceiling fan to fill the empty space. His dimmed phone screen casts shadows and harsh cool toned light on his face, highlighting the darkened bags under his eyes that his mother has been fretting about for a few days now. The hand that isn’t holding his phone is busy tracing the outline of his patch on Richie’s jacket that he accidentally took home with him that night, the one he hasn’t taken off in two days. It doesn’t really smell like Richie anymore.

He reads over the last text Richie sent him for what feels like the billionth time, sent a few hours after he dropped Eddie off at the end of movie night.

**Bitchie >Spagheddie**

**3:02 am**

Bitchie: hey i dont wana wake u up but uh

Bitchie: can i coe over wen u wake up?

Bitchie: i jst really need to talk

**Spagheddie >Bitchie**

**6:34 am**

Spagheddie: hey sorry but i cant hang today, im going on my run w ben and then moms making me go to church with her :/

Spagheddie: are you okay??

✓Read 6:34am

It’s been six days of radio silence from Richie, no texts or calls or pictures of stupid billboards he saw on his way to Portland. He’s texted Richie several times since then and even called him a few times, though the phone just rings hollowly until it goes to voicemail. He tries to come up with every possible explanation for Richie’s sudden drop off the grid, but he always finds a flaw in his logic. Maybe he left his charger at home by accident and his phone died. _Maggie and Went’s phones have the same charger, he could use theirs._ Maybe he broke his phone. _Maggie would immediately buy him a new one because him not having one makes her anxious._ Maybe he’s just been busy and hasn’t had much time to be on his phone. _Richie always texts the group chat about stupid things his family says when he visits._

In the end he always ends up circling back to the same two theories, each sinking a stone in the turbulence of his stomach and making him nauseous in their own ways. 

_Maybe he’s avoiding you_

Or

_Maybe he’s hurt._

He doesn’t know which is worse, and he doesn’t really want to find out. All he knows is that it's been six days since he’s heard from Richie, and two days since he had the energy to leave his room on his own volition for anything other than to go to the bathroom. He’s only eaten when his mother forces him to come down for dinner, yelling his name up the stairs until he emerges from his room to silently scarf down whatever tv dinner she’s dethawed and tossed in the microwave for not enough time. 

Ben’s been by a few times, virtually the only loser his mom doesn’t have something bad to say about and charming enough to convince her to let him in. Eddie hasn’t really felt like going on runs, but Ben isn’t really there for that anyways. For the most part they don’t talk, or at least, Eddie doesn’t. Ben will fill him in on whatever project he’s working on for an online architecture course his shop teacher showed him, and sometimes he’ll lend encouraging words and reassurances Eddie’s way before he settles in on the floor against the bed and reads or sketches up his next project. Simply there to let Eddie know he’s not alone, and even though he can’t really express it at the moment, he appreciates it. 

He feels like a schoolgirl mourning the end of her first relationship, but he doesn’t remember the last time he felt this much anxiety pooled in his chest, swimming around his lungs to drown him from the inside out. He feels a little bit ridiculous, feels like he's definitely being overdramatic, but he doesn't think he’s gone this long without talking to Richie since they _met_ , and he feels every second of it in his bones.

Part of him thinks he should text Maggie or Went, just to know that Richie is safe, but he hasn't gotten the chance to get their number since he got his phone a few months ago. He also figures that it'd be a pretty big breach of boundaries; If Richie really is just avoiding Eddie, he probably doesn't want his parents suddenly weighing in. Instead, Eddie takes a deep breath and starts a new group chat.

**Spagheddie >Himbo Denbrough +4 more**

**11:48 pm**

Spagheddie: hey has anyone heard from rich? i haven’t heard from him in like a week

Beaverly: nothin here :/ 

Himbo Denbrough: me neither didn’t he say he was going out of town?

Birdman: yeah but it’s not like him to just drop off the face of the earth

Cowboy Grandpa: i'm sure he just broke his phone or something

Eddie decides to bite his tongue at that in a thinly veiled attempt to keep the others from knowing just how much he’s over-thought this already.

Megabloks: I haven't heard anything since movie night

Spagheddie: im worried,,, this isn’t like him at all

Beaverly: maybe he just needs some time to himself while hes away?

Birdman: he has been kinda off lately, im sure bevs right

Spagheddie: but he would tell us right???

He’s about to fill the group chat with his various theories on Richie’s sudden absence when another text comes in from Ben, this one outside of the group chat.

**Megabloks >Spagheddie**

**11:54 pm**

Megabloks: Hey I just thought of this, didn’t really think anything of it in the moment but Richie texted me after movie night

Megabloks: It seemed kinda off but then you told me he was going out of town and I figured it had something to do with that

Megabloks: :ss.richietexts.jpg:

The picture that Ben sends is a screenshot of his texts with Richie the day after movie night, and Eddie’s breath hitches as he reads it.

**Bitchie >Megabloks**

**6:35am**

Bitchie: hey 

Bitchie: tke care of eddie whn im gone?

Bitchie: thx

**Megabloks >Bitchie**

**8:20 am**

Megabloks: Sure man, everything good?

Richie hasn’t read Ben’s text even 6 days later, and suddenly Eddie feels like the air has been punched from lungs. His hands shake as he brings the phone to his ear, eyes clenched shut as he listens to it ring.

“Hey Eddie, you feelin’ any better?” Comes Ben’s honeyed greeting, soothing the quickened beats of Eddie’s heart if only a little. 

“I-I think Richie’s hurt and I don’t- don’t know what to do,” He hiccups as tears well in his eyes, desperately trying to catch the breath that seems to be running away from him. 

“Heyheyhey, you don’t know that Eddie. Take a deep breath, do you need your inhaler?” He asks gently, no judgement to be found in his tone. Eddie shakes his head frantically before remembering Ben can’t see him.

“No, no I don’t I just- this isn’t like him at all, he won’t pick up the phone o-or even look at texts and I-I’m worried,” He takes a shaky breath and holds it before breathing out, “I’m scared.” 

“It’s okay to be scared, but I’m sure Richie’s perfectly fine-”  
  
“But how do you _know?_ He could be hurt o-or scared and alone or fucking- fucking _dead_ , Ben! What if he’s f-fucking dead I can’t- can’t do this s-shit without him I-” He interrupts himself with strained breaths, sitting up in bed and clutching at his hair in a last ditch attempt to ground himself. His breaths are deep but too rapid to have any calming effect, his heart beating out of his chest so intensely that his mind screams at him that he’s having a heart attack. He clutches at his shirt underneath Richie’s jacket, whimpering as he scratches at the base of his neck like if he can claw his throat open it might just get some air into his lungs. 

“Eddie please, you need to _breathe_. I know you’re worried, I am too, but please just try to breathe. I’ll breathe with you, okay? I’ll count for you, just follow me okay?” All Eddie can do is whimper in response as Ben leads him through a breathing exercise, one he explains that his mother used to use to calm him whenever he was upset when he was younger. 

After a few minutes Eddie finally feels like he can breathe again, even if his breaths still rattle as he draws them in. His eyelids feel heavy and he can’t seem to blink away the throbbing pain just behind his eyes and radiating in his temple, and he's more tired than he’s felt since the Fourth of July. He wipes at his dampened cheeks with the sleeve of Richie’s jacket, sniffling pitifully to himself.

“Thank you,” He mumbles, voice too thick to produce anything louder. The skin at the base of his throat stings where he’s scratched it red and raw, and he stomps down the anxiety that whispers at him that it’s going to get infected. 

“Of course. Are you okay?” Ben asks quietly, matching Eddie’s volume like anything louder will send him into another spiral. Maybe it would. He doesn’t feel like he knows anything anymore. 

“What if he’s hurt?” He murmurs in lieu of an answer, feeling small as he lays back down and curls into the worn denim of the jacket blanketing him. 

“I know you’re worried Eddie but we can’t focus on what if’s right now, you know? I’m sure Bev’s right and he just needs some time to himself while he visits family. We’ll see him again when he gets back in town and get this whole thing sorted out, alright?” His tone leaves no room for argument while remaining soft, the firm sort of reassurance Eddie needs when his thoughts get away from him like that. 

“Alright,” He breathes even though a very persistent part of him still screams that something is wrong. But Ben is right, there’s no use working himself up when he doesn’t even know if there’s anything to get worked up about. Then again, he’s spent his whole life getting worked up over anything his mother deemed unsafe whether it was rational or not, so he thinks he has a bit of an excuse there.

"Just try to get some sleep, please? You really need the rest," Ben pleads, the tiredness in his own voice seeping through.

"I will, thanks again," Eddie yawns, eyes already weighed shut with the exhaustion of a hundred sleepless nights, "G'night Ben."

"Night Eddie. Talk to you tomorrow."

* * *

"Maggie?” Eddie calls from where he clutches his inhaler in Keene’s pharmacy, instantly recognizing the tight black curls at the top of a tall, thin silhouette. She jumps slightly at the sound of her name, turning quickly enough that she drops the box of gauze she’d been reaching for.

“Oh! Eddie, I didn’t see ya there,” She smiles shakily as Eddie crouches to collect the dropped boxes for her, “Thank you,” She breathes when he straightens and hands the box back to her with furrowed brows.

“Yeah it’s been a while huh?” He wonders as she pulls him into a tight hug against her chest, and he thinks he can feel her shaking, “How are you doing? How’s Went?” He wants to ask _are you okay_ but thinks it might be a bit invasive, but in all honesty, she looks awful. Her eyes are red rimmed and puffy behind her glasses, and her usually immaculately kept curls are frizzy and sticking out in all the wrong directions like she’s been running her hands through them too much. Her smile is watery and fragile at best, the bags under her eyes deepened to a bruised purple, and everything about her body language screams _tired_ . Maggie is taller than Eddie but not quite as tall as Richie- he’s always said the only thing he ever got from his dad was his height, and he’s not wrong- but she seems small there in the harsh, flickering fluorescent light of the pharmacy. Eddie’s heart picks up at that, each thump slamming against his ribcage with a rhythm that sounds suspiciously similar to the chant of _he’s hurt, he’s hurt, he’s hurt_ on repeat in his head _._

“Oh, you know,” She gestures vaguely, doing her best to force a smile, “Things have been better,” Is what she decides on in the end, shifting the various boxes of medical supplies in her arms. Eddie has a brief flash of nausea, but he rights himself and paints on a worried furrow to his brow.

“I’m sorry,” He frowns, “Did something happen in Portland? When’d you guys get back?” He asks innocently enough, carefully watching the confused scrunch of her nose that’s painfully reminiscent of Richie. 

“Portland..?” She mutters with a tilt of her head, her brows creasing more insistently now, “What do you mean? We haven’t gone out of town any time recently.”

It’s an answer that at least a part of him had been expecting whether he acknowledged it or not, but his heart still sinks like the stone it’s solidified into nevertheless.

“W-what do you mean? Richie said you were…” He breathlessly trails off, clutching his closed fist around his placebo inhaler so tightly he hears the plastic creak. His vision swims as Maggie’s features bloom with realization, taking on a gentle empathy that brings his knees a little closer to giving out. 

“Oh sweetheart,” Her voice trembles and the vibrations crack at Eddie’s ribs as her eyes well up, “Richie’s been in the hospital since last Sunday.”

He only registers her voice as far as _hospital_ before the ringing in his ears drowns her out, his eyes glossing over with a far away stare that isn’t really seeing anything at all. He’s all too aware of the way the air in the pharmacy seems to be thinning out, the way his chest caves in and the prickling heat in the back of his nose. He’s less aware of the trembling of his fingers where they grip on his inhaler in one hand and the itchy fabric of his church slacks in the other; He’s caught somewhere between hypervigilant and completely dissociative, feeling like he’s watching himself disintegrate from a perspective that isn’t his own. 

“- woke up a few days ago, thank the heavens,” He realizes that Maggie is still speaking to him with her waterlogged voice and quivering form. When he looks back to her face he distantly registers the tears collecting at her jaw and the corners of her lips, and he doesn’t know what to say, knows there isn’t anything he _could_ say to make this okay, to make her stop crying, to get Richie out of the hospital. He feels numb and hollowed as he turns away wordlessly, lets his legs carry his blank mind out the doors of Keene’s pharmacy into the beautiful warmth of the sun that feels like cruel mockery when it kisses his artificially chilled skin. 

He doesn’t know where he’s going as he turns to head down the sidewalk, but he breaks into a sprint, church slacks too tight and dress shoes a little too big for the way his feet pound against the sidewalk. His lungs burn bright but his eyes burn brighter and he shuts them against the breeze that whips his hair into his eyes, trusting his legs to carry him away from Keene’s, away from Maggie, away from himself, away away away. He doesn’t know where he’s going but he’ll be damned if he stops to think about it before he gets there. 

He’s barrelling through the door of the Denbrough house before he can think about it, too distracted to be thankful that neither Sharon nor Zach are home to question his rude appearance. He tumbles up the stairs with bleary eyes and he must be making way too much noise because Bill’s already standing outside his bedroom when Eddie gracelessly arrives on the landing, staring at him with a bewildered type of concern that finally rips a choked cry from Eddie’s throat. His hands are braced on his knees and the sob that wracks his body is enough to have him feeling a little unsteady on his feet, like a gust of wind or an unkind word could topple him completely. 

“E-Eddie what-” Bill doesn’t bother to finish his sentence before he’s rushing forward, hands hovering like he’s afraid that if he touches Eddie that he might crumble in his hands. Eddie thinks he really could. 

“Billy,” He whimpers breathlessly, falling forward into Bill’s chest with the ingrained trust that he’ll be caught, the knowledge that he always has been. He feels Bill stiffen beneath him before comforting arms wrap around his back and press him closer, ever the pillar he’s always been to Eddie, to all the losers. 

At some point they move from the stair landing to Bill’s room, with Bill backed up against the headboard and Eddie curled against his side, snivelling against his collarbone in a way that would disgust him if he were any more present. As it is he can do nothing but quietly weep in the other boy’s lap, listening to the quiet hums in Bill’s chest and feel his steady breaths against his cheek.

Bill whispers a quiet mantra of _It’s okay, you’re okay, I've got you,_ into Eddie’s hair, palm gently gliding over his shoulder and occasionally squeezing it in a way that feels so familiar that Eddie can’t help but feel comforted by the steady weight of one of his best friends. It’s in moments like this that Bill’s stutter seems to all but disappear, his voice even and grounded in the way Eddie desperately needs it to be. He thinks it might just break him if the certainty in Bill’s reassurances wavers in the slightest. 

Bill doesn’t ask what’s wrong, doesn’t prod Eddie for answers he doesn’t have, answers he’s still searching for himself. Bill gives him space to think and the solace of not doing it alone, grounding him just enough to keep his thoughts on a consistent path. Eddie thinks that maybe Bill’s unquestioning comfort is the reason his body brought him here when his brain couldn’t steer him. 

The only thoughts occupying his mind are about _Richie Richie Richie_ , as if that’s anything new. Richie hurt, Richie in a hospital bed, Richie _scared,_ Richie _alone._ He whimpers quietly at the idea of it and buries his nose in the crook of Bill’s neck like it’ll shield him from his own thoughts. He can’t stop circling back to the last time he’d seen Richie; The way he’d painted on a too-wide smile that still didn’t reach his eyes, the way he’d so effortlessly told Eddie he was going out of town, the way he’d _lied_ so easily like he’s done it a billion times before.  
  
And still Eddie can’t figure out _why_ , but he knows that there’s still pages of this story missing. Because Richie's always had an overactive imagination, spinning stories tailor made for each of the losers' individual humor because he knows exactly how to get them to laugh, but he never _lies_. Depending on who you asked Richie Tozier is a lot of things, but he sure as hell isn't a liar. 

But he’s been more than a little off since school let out, maybe before that if Eddie really thinks about it. Like regular Richie but a few inches to the left, his boisterous personality overlaid with something quieter, something a little dimmer. He thinks about the texts he sent after the last time they were together, _I really need to talk._ Tears start to spill over his lashes anew as the thought comes to him, a whisper in the back of his mind, that maybe this is his fault. Maybe if he’d talked less that night, asked Richie what was wrong like he’d intended to earlier in the night, never tried to talk about his crush, that maybe he’d be at Richie’s house right now instead of Bill’s. Maybe he’d be helping Maggie with dinner instead of helping her pick up boxes of gauze, laying with Richie reading comics instead of crying with Bill as Richie sits alone in a hospital bed. 

Because as much as he doesn’t want to acknowledge it- even though he’ll still pray that he’s wrong- Eddie knows what happened. The convenient cover up for the time missed, the look on his face when he thought no one was paying attention. His text to Ben; _Take care of Eddie when I’m gone._ _When_ instead of _while_. _When,_ with all its implications of inevitable finality, its decisive conclusions.

Eddie chokes on the thought that if he’d just let Richie come over, even for a few minutes, that this wouldn’t have happened. His sobs come back twice as violent this time around, his sternum feeling as though it might cave in with every gasping intake of air as Bill desperately works to calm him down. 

Part of him feels that maybe he should tell Bill why he’s crying, thinks he should tell Bill what Maggie told him at Keene’s. Because Richie is Bill’s friend too, and he would be just as heartbroken. But if Richie wanted them to know he’d tell them, and it isn’t Eddie’s secret to spill. 

Another more selfish part of him thinks he doesn’t want Bill to know because he needs the comfort, the blind reassurance that things will be okay. He knows it’s a shameful thought to have, but the shelter of Bill’s arms is too sturdy to leave behind. So he stays where he is, pressed into the hollows of Bill’s body until eventually his eyes close, and the tears stop.

He doesn’t know what time it is when he wakes up but the throbbing pain behind his eyes tells him it hasn’t been long enough. He shifts in bed, feeling a light blanket brush his hip where his button up has come untucked and ridden up his side. He throws his arm to the side with his eyes still closed, frowning when the body he’s inefficiently searching for isn’t there. He rolls onto his side and pushes up on his elbow, rubbing at one eye as he slowly blinks the other open. 

“Bill?” He calls out timidly, voice raw and gravelled from crying. Bill turns to him with a gentle smile from where he’s sat at his desk, right hand flicking a pencil as he sits bent over his notebook.

“You’re a-awake,” He states, setting the pencil down and turning in his desk chair to more openly face Eddie. He runs a hand through his hair before leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs, crystalline eyes dancing over Eddie’s worn features like they might give him some answers, “You wanna ta-talk about it?”

“No,” Eddie states simply, sitting up in the bed and staring down at crumpled bed sheets.

“Okay,” And Bill doesn’t push, because he never does. 

“What time is it?” 

“Almost th-three,” Bill replies casually as Eddie reaches for his phone, groaning at the numerous texts from his mom crowding his lockscreen.

“My mom’s pissed,” Eddie sighs, anxiously clutching at his hair as he tries to think of an explanation as to why a pharmacy run took him damn near five hours. _Sorry mom, I found out the boy I have a huge gay crush on is in the hospital and I had a mental breakdown so now I'm at Bill's, see ya tonight!_ Yeah, he figures that won’t necessarily go over too well.

“A-are you still wanting to come to the qwa-quarry tonight? You can just s-stay here till we go if you wa-want,” Bill offers as he stands to stretch, leaning against the desk instead and crossing one ankle over the other and his arms over his chest. 

“Fuck, I forgot that’s tonight,” He sighs, sliding to the edge of the bed and plucking at a loose thread on one of the buttons of his shirt, “Yeah, I’ll stay here I guess, I’ll be fine by tonight,” That’s not really true, but he’ll certainly feel better staying than if he goes home. 

“You wa-wanna borrow some clothes? Those ca-can’t be comfortable,” He gestures to Eddie’s church clothes with a skeptical brow.

“Ugh yes please, I’m pretty sure I’ve had these pants since 7th grade and they definitely don’t fit anymore,” Eddie eagerly pushes off the bed and goes to Bill’s dresser, backed by too many years of friendship to play shy about it.

“They b-barely reach your an-ankles,” Bill snorts, watching Eddie rifle through the bottom drawer where he knows most of Bill’s older- and subsequently smaller- clothes are kept, “A-and that’s s-s-saying something for you,” He snickers. 

“Oh shut up, I’m not even that much smaller than you,” Eddie hisses as he pulls out an old t-shirt and black joggers, throwing them to the bed and turning to lightly shove Bill towards the door, “Now get out, I need to change.” 

“This is m-my room!”

“Yeah and I’m a guest, don’t be fuckin’ rude,” He chastises with a small smile as he pushes Bill out of the room. Bill just laughs and turns, catching on the doorframe.

“You hungry at all? I can s-start the oven and we can m-make pizza rolls,” He offers with a knowing smirk, knowing Eddie never gets to have pizza rolls at home and practically foams at the mouth at even the mention. 

“William Denbrough, I would _love_ some pizza rolls, go start the oven and I’ll be down in a sec,” He instructs as he grips the handle to the door.

“O-only if you agree to never call me W-William again,” He scrunches his nose in distaste, “You sound like my m-mom.”  
  
“I’m closing the door now,” Eddie sings as he does just that, strutting back over to the bed as he listens to Bill’s laughs trail further down the hall. He dresses quickly and for the most part the clothes fit, the shirt baggy but not overly-so, and the pants a little loose on his hips and just a bit too long but nothing unbearable. He leans down and cuffs the bottoms of the joggers, before folding his church clothes neatly on the bed and glancing around for where Bill put his shoes. He scrunches his nose at them when he sees them by the bed, debating asking Bill to borrow a pair of tennis shoes but knowing they won’t fit. He turns away and decides to worry about it later, standing in front of Bill’s full body mirror to take a good look at himself. 

His hair is ruffled on one side and flat on the other, sticking up at odd angles in the front where he’d been gripping at it. He’s got the ghost of a pillow imprint pressed into the left side of his face, ruddy cheeks the same red color as his puffy eyes. He looks about as good as he feels, and he grimaces at his reflection as he tries to tame his hair into something at least vaguely presentable. He turns away from the mirror before he can focus too much on _why_ he looks half dead, shaking his head as he finally heads downstairs to where he can hear Bill milling around in the kitchen. He looks back over his shoulder from where he’s digging in the freezer, smiling warmly when he sees Eddie and pulling out the treasured bag of Totinos. 

“G-good timing,” Bill chirps as he closes the freezer door and walks over to the baking sheet he’d set out, tearing a corner of the bag with his teeth in a way that makes Eddie squirm, “H-how many do you want?”

“Honestly just pour the whole thing and we’ll split it, I haven't eaten since breakfast,” He admits, patting at his stomach when it gives a well-timed growl. Bill just shrugs agreeably and tears the rest of the bag open, upturning it and noisily spilling its contents onto the baking sheet. He sets the timer on the oven and sticks the sheet in the oven, closing it and leaning his hip against the handle. 

“12 minutes o-on the clock,” He smiles as Eddie moves to seat himself atop one of the benches by the island. They talk aimlessly for a while, Bill telling Eddie about how he and Mike have started watching Avatar the Last Airbender together and have already decided which Nation each of the losers would belong to. At some point he mentions the upcoming cross country tryouts and how he needs to buy new running shoes, and Eddie remembers his earlier debacle.

“Hey, before we go to the quarry later can we stop by my house? I need to drop off my clothes and grab some different shoes,” He explains, mind wandering to the worn denim jacket still laying on his bed from where he’d fallen asleep in it last night, “And some other stuff,” He tacks on distantly.

“S-sure, as long as you can m-make it back out without your mom k-killing you,” Bill chuckles, perking up at the sound of the oven’s timer sounding. He turns and opens up the oven, leveling Eddie with a slightly mournful look that stills him in his seat, “This is my l-least favorite part,” He sighs before turning back to the oven and reaching for the sheet with his bare hands, grabbing it and hissing as he quickly works to roughly toss it onto the countertop, muttering curses and ‘ow’s as he does so. 

Eddie can do nothing but stare with wide eyes in absolute shock, mouth agape at the sheer stupidity of everything that is Bill Denbrough. Eventually he can do nothing but laugh at the wounded puppy dog look Bill casts his way, a full-bellied laugh that has him doubled over the kitchen island and tears edging the corners of his eyes. It’s a welcome distraction.

“You’re so fucking dumb Bill,” He giggles breathlessly, tone too fond to be mean, “You should really leave the cooking to Mikey,” Bill pouts in return, but Eddie can see the slight upturn at the corners of his lips, and his chest feels a little lighter.

They divvy up their pizza rolls and make their way to the living room couch to put on a movie neither of them pay attention to, and if Eddie steals a few extra from Bill’s plate, the other boy doesn’t mention it. They stay in more or less the same position until the sun starts to fall behind the trees, signaling them that it’s time to get a move on and meet up with the others. Eddie grabs his pile of clothes from upstairs- slipping back into his dress shoes for the time being, no matter how much he dislikes them- while Bill dumps their plates in the sink and starts the car. 

Sonia is asleep in her rocking chair when Eddie quietly pushes through the front door, the blinking light of whatever soap she’s watching this time bathing her in dim cool toned light that washes her out. Eddie makes quick work of going upstairs and placing his church clothes on his bed, kicking off his dress shoes a little more aggressively than strictly needed in favor of his best running shoes. Before he leaves he makes sure to grab Richie’s jacket, his mind already spinning through an arsenal of excuses for why he grabbed it as he slips his arms through the sleeves. Bill gives him a look when he slides back into the car that Eddie can’t quite pin down- something pitiful almost, but with a more knowing undercurrent. It leaves a bitter taste on Eddie’s tongue- but he doesn’t mention it as he backs out of the driveway.

By the time they climb out of the car at their designated meeting spot near the quarry, Bev, Ben, and Stan are already waiting for them. Stan is the only one wearing actual swimming clothes- that are visible, at least- because he is, as always, the only sensible one, and Mike has yet to arrive. Eddie wordlessly wanders over to Ben and Bev, receiving twin sympathetic smiles as he folds himself into Ben’s chest with his arms tucked between their torsos. Ben wraps his arms around Eddie’s back without hesitation, squeezing him just the right amount to be comforting and grounding without crushing him.

“Hey Eddie,” He hums as Eddie pulls away with a valiant attempt at a smile, turning to wrap his arms around Bev’s lower back and rest his cheek on the sun-warmed skin of her shoulder. 

“Glad ya made it spaghetti, we’ve missed ya,” She wraps one arm around his shoulders as the other hand comes up to ruffle his hair affectionately, and Eddie doesn’t have the energy to correct the nickname- he never does, really, when it comes to anyone but Richie. It just isn’t as much fun. But he’s trying really hard not to think about Richie right now, so he shakes the thought and smiles a little brighter at her before he breaks away to hug Stan.

His hug with Stan is brief, which isn’t surprising, because Stan’s never really been one for abundant physical affection. But there’s a kind of unspoken understanding hanging in the air that Eddie’s had a rough week, and he sure as hell looks like it, so he doesn’t need to ask for hugs or be questioned, and they all know it.

There’s something uniquely comforting about each of the losers’ individual hugs, something that radiates from each of them differently. Ben’s hugs are easily given and all encompassing, an infinite warmth that wraps around you like a blanket. Bev’s hugs are more like the slow warming to the core that you feel when you lay in the sun after swimming, fatigue weighing your bones in the most blissful way. Eddie’s never been on a plane- too many germs in airports, according to his mother- but he imagines stepping onto solid ground after a long flight feels pretty similar to the hugs Bill gives. Stan’s hugs are soothing in the way that Vicks vaporub is when you’re sick, relaxing every aching muscle you might have and bringing about a kind of hard-to-pin nostalgia that’s readily welcomed. Mike’s hugs are some of Eddie’s favorites, like drinking freshly brewed lavender tea surrounded by old books and candles with pretty scents. Mike is also just a hell of a lot bigger than Eddie, which is always nice when it comes to hugs. 

Richie’s hugs are- well. Eddie could wax poetic about how Richie’s hugs feel like drinking hot chocolate in the safety of your house when it’s snowing outside, or sitting in front of a fire on a rainy day when the sun hides behind greyed clouds and cracks of thunder. He could fawn over how Richie is just the perfect height for Eddie to slot against his chest like they’re vases molded from the same clay, how Richie always rubs shapes into the space between Eddie’s shoulder blades in a way that’s so minutely comforting that he probably isn’t even thinking about it. He could give a starry eyed monologue to rival Shakespeare’s about Richie’s hugs, but really, he doesn’t need to. Every metaphor and analogy he could come up with would all lead back to the same point: Richie’s hugs are like home. No monologue required.

Mike shows up not too long after Eddie and Bill, and as Mike hugs him with enough enthusiasm to briefly lift his feet from the ground, he feels some of the water that’s been crowding his lungs start to retreat. They all chat idly as they unpack towels and a cooler from their cars, Bev proudly boasting that she brought beers and wine coolers if any of them care to partake. Eddie sees all kinds of problems with that and promptly starts in on a rant as they begin to walk down to the bank about the dangers of drinking and swimming, especially at _night, are you stupid-_ when they all hear a car rolling over the gravel toward them. Their conversations halt as they listen to the tires come to a stop and the opening of a door, a familiar playlist quietly floating through the air with an even more familiar voice humming along.

Richie appears over the hill of the embankment a few seconds later, an easy smile stretching his lips as he strolls along like nothing happened.

Several of the losers let out a unison chorus of “Richie!” as they all rush forward to greet him. Stan hangs back for a second with the small smile that Stan does- the one that to everyone else looks like barely anything at all, but to the losers is as good as a shit-eating grin- before he ambles over to join the group hug that’s formed around their missing member. 

And Eddie? Eddie stays put, feet firmly planted as his vision tunnels and zeros in on wire frame glasses and untamed curls.

If he wasn’t sure before, Eddie is now a firm believer in the fact that time, as a concept, is utter bullshit. Because it shouldn’t be able to stretch at will like this, slow and expand like wading through molasses, to manipulate Eddie’s already poor perception skills. Suddenly he feels like he’s watching the rest of the losers through a two way mirror, bearing witness to the festivities in front of him without really being a part of them, separated by a wall they aren’t even aware is present.

Because Richie looks- Richie looks fucking _fine_ . He looks so god damn, impeccably _okay_ that Eddie almost questions his own sanity, wonders if the past week of worrying and the conversation with Maggie at Keene’s ever really happened. Sure, he’s a little pale, and the bags under his eyes are sunken in and a little darker than usual, and Eddie would confidently wager that he’s lost some weight, but maybe the others don’t notice those things the way Eddie does. And he’s almost convinced himself that he’s crazy, that he’s finally hit the mental break he always kind of anticipated and somehow conjured up the past week entirely inside his own head, when Bill glances back over his shoulder at Eddie, that same, bitter tasting look he’d given Eddie in the car rearing its ugly head again. Except this time it’s laced with an unmistakable excitement, a silent “Look! He’s here!” kind of glimmer that for some reason both freezes his veins shut and boils his blood at the same time.

Richie’s wearing the black and white horizontal striped longsleeve that he hasn’t worn in months- its fucking _August,_ they’re about to go _swimming, what the fuck-_ with his ugliest hawaiian shirt hanging open over it, plain ripped black jeans covering most of his legs. His hair curls out from his head like the devil's horns, frizzy and messier than usual but with none of its usual volume or life. And Eddie really is worried he’s losing it, because somehow this outfit is _wrong_ , and it's unsettling enough to quicken his heartbeat. Because the outfit is by no means normal- no sane person would ever wear that, the patterns clash and frankly it’s just fuckin’ ugly together, but its not wrong in the right way. There’s no absurd phrases written across the chest in curly letters, no hat with something vaguely sexual stitched into the front, no fishnets or booty shorts or anything even remotely eye-catching in the way Richie’s outfits always are. By Richie’s standards this is the most boring outfit he’s worn in months, and something about it completely solidifies the reality of this situation to Eddie. Richie was in the hospital no more than twelve hours ago, hooked up to god knows what kinds of machines, barely fucking _alive_ a few days ago by Maggie’s account.

And now he’s here, standing in front of Eddie surrounded by all their friends, grinning with buck teeth and acting like nothing fucking happened. And Eddie almost wants to snap. Something in him is twisted too tight, hanging by a last thread of patience as he finally tunes into Richie’s loud greetings.

“Where the fuck have you been, Trashmouth?” Bev questions in an excited yell, jumping onto Richie’s back and playfully choking him out as he cackles, “Did Satan himself finally come to get your dumbass?”  
  
“He _wishes_ he could get a piece 'o this sweet ass,” He replies without missing a beat, grinning as he spins in a circle with Bev happily screeching as she does her best to hang on, “That would’a been _way_ more interesting than whatever the fuck I’ve been up to the past week.”  
  
“Yeah w-what gives, you just d-disappeared on us,” Bill’s attempt at an interrogation is undermined by the fond smile stretching his lips.

“Some of us were very worried,” Stanley chimes in from behind Bill, wicked smirk twisting his mouth, “I have no idea why, I was really enjoying the peace and quiet,” He grins as Richie barks out a laugh, shoving at Stan before wrapping an arm around his neck and pulling him tightly into his side. 

“I missed you too Stanley the Manly,” He coos in a baby voice, ruffling Stan’s hair until he’s inevitably pushed off. 

Meanwhile Eddie's having a fucking out of body experience on the sidelines, so far unnoticed by the others. 

“Seriously man, what happened? You drop dead or something?” Mike chuckles fondly, and Eddie’s shoulders stiffen at the same time that he watches Richie’s smile falter, a split second fracture in the facade that has every atom making up Eddie’s body absolutely _screaming_.

“Yeah, ha,” Richie forces an awkward laugh, shaking his head minutely as if to get himself back in the right mindset, “Got into a fight with the old man the day we left and he took my phone,” He feigns annoyance like a pro, and Eddie wants to scream and laugh and cry all at once. 

“You feelin alright though? I mean, not to be a dick but you look kinda rough Rich,” Ben observes, and Eddie feels a strange sense of relief that someone else notices, the smallest validation that this isn’t just his paranoia or his medical anxiety picking apart Richie’s features to find something wrong after a week of not seeing him whatsoever. Richie certainly doesn’t feel the same comfort, if the panic that momentarily flashes in his eyes is anything to go by. 

“Haystack, nothing you could say could ever make me think you’re being a dick,” Richie reassures with that same toothy grin and a nudge to Ben’s shoulder, “If you must know, I think one of my nieces got me sick or something, haven’t been feelin’ too hot the past few days,” Eddie has to give it to him, he’s quick on his feet with the lies, but to be fair, he’s probably had a few days to think about it. Eddie’s stomach churns, and he wants to cause a scene, throw a fit that he’s _lying_ , he was _hurt, he almost fucking died-_

But he can’t. Because Richie is making it more than clear that he doesn’t want the losers to know, doesn’t want _Eddie_ to know that he was in the hospital, _why_ he was in the hospital. And the worst part is that Eddie can’t really blame them for believing him, because why wouldn’t they? Richie’s not a liar. And if Eddie hadn’t run into Maggie, he’d believe him too. Because the losers don’t know what Eddie knows. _Richie_ doesn’t even know that Eddie knows, because clearly he doesn’t want him to. And something about that hurts, aches in a way that Eddie can’t really identify, but his vision’s a little hazy and it feels like he’s breathing through a straw.

And he wants to make a scene, but then Richie’s looking around past the losers, and Eddie’s forcibly pushed back into his own body again, his own perspective. Because he knows, on a deeply instinctive level, that it’s him that Richie’s searching for. 

“Anyways, where’s Eddie? Mrs. K got him locked up again?” And it’s almost theatrical, the way the losers so easily part, as if Richie is Moses commanding the same of the Red Sea. The easy grin that splits his cheeks when they lock eyes lights the fire in Eddie’s cheeks that’s been stomped out since last week, and he can already feel his resolve melting under the heat.

“Hey Eds,” He breathes, and something about it is just so fucking heart breakingly tender that it makes Eddie’s lower lip quiver, sparking that same tingling in the back of his nose that he’d felt in Bill’s bedroom. 

“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that, you fucking-” And he wants to lay into him, call him an asshole and a dickhead and whatever other increasingly creative insults fall from his lips, to fall into routine and claim some kind of normalcy. But he sees the furrow of Richie’s brow, the brief way he flinches back like he’s bracing to be hit, and it mutes anything else that might have followed. He clamps his mouth shut so hard his teeth click together and simply stares at Richie for a beat before he’s shaking his head and taking a step forward. The step quickly turns into a sprint before he's practically tackling Richie to the ground, crashing into his chest hard enough that Richie lets out an audible ‘oof.’

“Asshole,” He breathes shakily into Richie’s breastbone as the taller boy regains his composure and wraps his arms around Eddie’s back in return, burying his nose in Eddie’s- still unbearably messy- hair. He clutches at Richie’s ugly hawaiin shirt so hard that his fists shake, but they’re no different from the rest of him anyways. And Richie must notice, because he hugs Eddie even closer, curling down and around him and pressing them so tightly together that Eddie’s forced to stand on his toes, and he wants to cry at the feeling of it, the absolutely euphoria making his chest so light he feels a little dizzy with it. He tries his best to ignore the nagging thought that he came so close to never having this again, having _Richie_ again, in his arms and pressed to every inch of him like they were made to go together. His throat burns and he can feel the tears gathering on the edges of his eyelashes, so he buries his nose further in Richie’s shoulder and thinks _if there is a god, please just let me have this. Just this, and I’ll be happy._

"Is this my jacket?" Richie asks a little too loudly with a little too much humor in his tone as he starts to pull away to get a better look. Eddie only pulls him back in with twice as much force. 

"Shut up shut up shut the fuck up I can't fucking _stand you,"_ He hisses even as he burrows further into the juncture of Richie's neck. Richie simply chuckles low in his chest- Eddie can feel it vibrate against him- and squeezes him tighter, leaning down to place his lips closer to Eddie's ear. It sends a shiver up his spine that he chooses to ignore for the moment.

"I missed you too, Eds," Richie murmurs low enough for only Eddie to hear, so gentle and painfully genuine that he can't hide the broken hitch in his breath or the half-laugh-half-sob that tumbles past his lips. 

"Are you drama queens gonna keep hogging the moment or are we gonna get to swimming?" Beverly's teasing tone breaks through the bubble surrounding them to crash them back into the moment like she's pouring ice water onto their sleeping forms, yanking them back into reality so quickly that they each have to take a second to remember where they are and get their bearings. They pull away from each other, Richie grinning as wide as ever while Eddie has at least enough dignity to be embarrassed. It only lasts a second before he’s back into his rant about night-swimming as the others begin to strip down to their underwear.

“You guys can go ahead, me n’ Spaghetti will stay here and keep watch,” Richie swiftly cuts Eddie off, slinging an arm around the smaller boy even as he fumes silently at being interrupted once again. He raises a questioning brow at Richie, receiving only a small smile in return that does nothing to answer him.

“S-suit yourselves,” Bill shrugs, tugging his shirt off by the back of the neck, “Just try not to f-fuck too loudly,” He grins mischeviously and turns on his heels to run to the lakeshore before Eddie can swing at him, the others snickering and bumping past he and Richie as they run to join Bill.

“I hope you drown Denbrough!” Eddie calls back with burning ears and tingling in his chest, huffing when the others let out loud laughs and crash into the water, splashing each other as they head further towards the middle of the quarry. 

“Assholes,” Richie chuckles awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck as he starts to head back up the hill, “C’mon,” He turns to Eddie to nod his head in the direction of the cliff they all normally jump from, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

They stop at Richie’s truck on the way to the cliff, and he pulls the same blankets from the Fourth of July out from the toolbox in the back and carries them clutched to his chest as they trek the rest of the way up the hill. Richie sets out the blankets carefully on the ground as Eddie idly stands by, stacking them to create a more cushioned area to sit than the rough sandstone that makes up the cliff. They sit close but not close enough to be touching, and Eddie does his best to resist the urge to move closer. He hugs his legs to his chest and sets his chin on top of his knees in an attempt to keep warm, glancing at Richie who’s taking up far more space. He’s leaned back on his elbows in a way Eddie knows won’t be comfortable for long, one long leg stretched out with the other angled up at the clear sky hanging over them. He’s struck by the deep seeded need to get into Richie’s space and demand his attention, but the knowledge that he probably couldn’t handle it at the moment without breaking down again. He needs to be held but he would crumble under the touch, and at the same time, he feels like he’ll scream if anyone lays a finger on him again. 

And he kind of hates how pretty Richie looks like this, leaned back with his face turned toward the moon and his hair- God, it really has gotten long- hanging back out of his face. Eddie can’t help but think the cool tones of the night time suit him, bathing him in blue light and navy shadows that only serve to accentuate his eyes behind his thick lenses. Eddie can’t quite see his eyes from the angle he’s at but he’s sure he knows exactly what they look like in this light, clear and as blue as sapphires, sparkling in the particular way they only ever do under the moonlight. He looks a little paler like this but somehow it doesn’t wash him out, it only serves to make the freckles scattered across his nose all the more visible. Eddie would press a kiss to every one of them if Richie would let him. 

He feels like an absolute live wire, humming with excitement at being so close to Richie again but filled with the anxiety of every sensitive topic balancing on the tip of his tongue. He wants to confront Richie, ask him about the texts or the bags under his eyes or the long sleeves, but he bites his lip to hold it in, knowing it’s not the right time. The space around them feels too big, too open, the splashing and sounds of laughter and chatter from the losers below them reminding them that they aren’t alone, not really. And as much as Eddie wants answers, wants to make sure Richie’s _okay,_ he knows that spaces like this aren’t meant for that kind of conversation. 

What breaks the silence hanging between them instead is, “Why’d you come if you aren’t gonna swim?” He mutters it absently, staring into the inky black expanse ahead and hoping Richie doesn’t take it as harshly as he worded it. Richie huffs a quiet laugh, which is a good sign.

“I’m happy to see you too, dollface,” He smirks, tilting his head to the side with a slightly more serious expression, “I could ask you the same thing.”  
  
“Yeah, but I never swim at night. You could be havin’ fun with them, I guess I just don’t get why you’re sitting up here with me,” Eddie mumbles, resting his cheek on his knees to stare far too obviously at Richie’s sleeve riding up his wrist. Richie must notice, going by the way he sits up, pulls his sleeves down to cover his hands, and hunches forward. He rests one elbow on top of his bent knee and keeps the other hand in his lap. 

“Bold of you to assume I’m not havin’ fun sitting up here with you Spagheds,” He turns to Eddie with a gentler version of his usual grin, “Look, I knew if I didn’t come you’d just be sittin’ on the bank all by yourself like a dweeb, so I figured I might as well come bother you. Besides, I don’t really feel like swimming anyways.” 

Eddie doesn’t really know how to reply to that, so he doesn’t, opting instead to look back across the quarry and try to hide the small smile that tugs at his lips. They fall into a lull like that, simply existing in the same space without the need to fill the silence. Eddie listens to what sounds like a splash war down below, and Richie mindlessly toys with his hair with one hand and taps out a senseless rhythm on his thigh with the other. 

That morning feels so far away, feels like another life that had him standing in Keene’s in stiff dress shoes trying not to fall apart at his seams. The pain in his chest and the way his knees had shaken almost doesn’t feel real with Richie sitting next to him, humming a song that doesn’t exist and filling the space beside Eddie that he’s almost sure was made especially for Richie. Part of him wants to forget about it, to just move on and pretend he doesn’t know anything about Richie’s hospital stay, to get loud and bristley and joke with Richie in the same obnoxious way he’s gotten so used to. He thinks it would be nice to cling to the normalcy of it all.

But he can’t ignore the fatigue that bows his shoulders inward, the type of vaguely melancholic numbness that weighs the air around him so persistently. He can’t ignore the way his nose is still running from his earlier crying fits, or the way Richie keeps fiddling with his sleeves with shaky hands that look a little thinner than before. 

Part of him wants to forget about it, but the cruel reality of it is that he couldn’t even if he tried.

And he’s almost struck by how _angry_ he feels. Not quite the boiling point, scream until your lungs ache with it kind of anger he’s used to- the kind his mother draws so effortlessly- but rather a low, simmering type of anger that feels sticky in his throat. And he’s not necessarily _surprised_ that he’s angry- he’s pretty much always at least a little angry, just as a default. He thinks maybe he should work on that, but that’s a thought for another time- but he is surprised at just how persistent the fire licking at his sternum is. All he knows is that this anger has been broiling in him since that morning, though it had taken the backburner for a while to make room for the more urgent senses of panic and grief he’d been nursing. That’s what this is, really-he’s just cycling through the first four stages of grief over and over again trying to process the past week. And he hasn’t quite gotten to acceptance, relief straying just out of his reach even with Richie so solid and real beside him.

He closes his eyes against the light breeze that stings them, only to see images of Richie painted on his eyelids like he belongs there- he probably does. Stills of Richie with his head thrown back in laughter, grinning in the way he does that always accentuates his overbite; Eddie used to make jokes about it, but it was only ever to hide the way it always threw a wrench in his breathing. But just as they always seem to the past few days, the memories inevitably warp. He thinks of Richie at the barbecue, silently sitting back with no food in front of him as the rest of the losers loudly bantered with their mouths full. He thinks of the countless looks he’d gotten from Richie that day, the ones he couldn’t quite figure out, the ones Richie only casted when he thought Eddie wouldn’t see. He thinks of saying goodnight to Richie that night, of knowing he should turn back but going forward anyways, of his conscious screaming that something was wrong with Richie as his mom laid into him for being late because of that _disgusting Tozier boy._ He thinks of Richie’s last texts, of Richie staying up all night waiting for Eddie to reply only to be shot down, of the desperation he must have felt-

“Eds?” Richie’s voice rings clear even through the volume of Eddie’s muddled thoughts, a merciful pull back into reality that tugs him away from the metaphorical cliff’s edge, “You alright?”

He almost wants to laugh at the irony of Richie asking _him_ if he’s okay.

“Hm?” He hums and shakes his head a bit, opening his eyes to take in the concerned furrow of Richie’s brow when he finally registers the question he’s been asked, “Yeah, yeah I’m fine just- just had a long day I guess.”

Part of him resents the quirked brow that lets him know Richie isn’t buying his shit excuse for a second. 

“No offense Eds, but you’re a shit liar,” He scoots closer as he talks, and Eddie’s skin both aches for the touch and screams for more space, “I can practically see the cogs turnin’ in your little head, what’s got you thinkin’ so hard?” He pokes at Eddie’s temple, and Eddie tries not to think of how easily he leans into the touch. He bats Richie’s hand away with a frown and hopes the cover is good enough.

“It’s really nothing, I promise,” But Richie doesn’t really seem to be taking no for an answer, so Eddie squeezes his eyes shut and steadies his breathing. And he lies, because it’s a hell of a lot easier, “I just- do you remember um, what we talked about on the Fourth of July? How you, uh, how you don't think you can fall in love?”

Richie doesn’t give much a reply outside of a slow nod, so he continues, looking down at the blanket beneath his feet, “Well I looked some more into it, and I think I figured out what it is,” By ‘looked more into it’ he means that he asked Bev, because she’s always known way more about this type of thing than he ever has, and that way his mom couldn’t find his search history, “And- and I might be wrong, you know, but you just seemed pretty upset about it so I thought I’d see if anyone else feels that way? Well uh, it turns out it’s like, actually kinda common? There’s a whole group o’ people that feel the same way, um, it’s called asexual- or, I guess aromantic, I don’t really know if you’d be asexual,” And he’s definitely rambling at that point, blood blooming high on his cheeks as he stumbles through an explanation, but Richie’s giving him this _look_ that’s right on the edge of pure affection and he can’t really handle that right now.

“Eds-"

“I don’t know, I’m probably not making that much sense I just- you’re not alone, you know? Like, there’s a shit ton of people who feel the same way and- and it’s normal and it’s _okay,_ ” He takes a breath to slow himself down, sitting a little straighter to look Richie dead in the eyes for the next part, “And it doesn't make you a bad person. It’s- you’re okay. You’re okay,” And maybe he repeats it more for himself than he does for Richie, but Richie doesn’t seem to notice, and Eddie thinks he’s earned at least that. 

Richie stares at him for a second like he’s searching for a crack in the surface, waiting for a punchline or a smirk or anything to tell him that Eddie might just be pulling some kind of cruel joke on him. But it doesn’t come. He turns away with a watery smile, adjusting his glasses like he’s resisting the urge to rub at his eyes and drawing in a shaky breath.

“Thanks,” He chuckles wetly, pushing his hair back away from his face and staring out towards the edge of the cliff. They listen to Bev chant ‘drown him!’ from below, and they look at each other for a brief second before dissolving into giggles, naturally leaning towards one another as they listen to Bill screaming in fear as Mike yells ‘get back here!’ after him.

“Yeah, get him!” Eddie cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, throwing his head back in laughter at the large splashing sound and cheers that follow, “Serves him right, that little asshole,” He snickers as he calms down, smile lingering as he turns to look over to where Richie’s fallen silent. He finds that Richie’s already watching him, lips parted and eyes a little wider than before. They glint with something Eddie thinks he might recognize but can’t quite name, something close enough to familiar that it gives him a sense of deja vu that sets off something warm in his chest and the tips of his ears. He turns away again, biting his lip to hold back the timid smile that stretches his reddened cheeks. 

“I mean it Eds, thank you,” Richie breaks the silence a moment later, voice quieter than before with a hint of hesitation. He opens his mouth a few times only to close it again, pursing his lip as he searches for the right words. He sighs, tilting his head back and squeezing his eyes shut for a moment before, “But, uh, I think-” He takes in a shaky breath, “I think I might have been wrong.”

And something about that sends an arrow through Eddie’s chest that feels like a strange cross between hope and panic. It’s barbed and goes straight between his ribs, stops just short of a beating heart that seems to speed up the longer Richie looks at him from the corner of his eye with his face scrunched up like he just said something he’s afraid is about to get him decked. 

“Oh,” Is the sound that’s punched from Eddie’s chest, falling from his lips not entirely with permission. He shakes his head a bit and plasters on a gentle smile to hide the mild panic nesting in his chest, “That’s great, Rich.”  
  
Richie nods, shoulders settling back down as he turns his face away slightly and scratches at the back of his neck, “Yeah, it’s- it’s cool, I guess,” He breathes.

And Eddie knows he really, _really_ shouldn’t ask, but, “Did, uh, did someone change your mind?” 

It's a question that doesn’t really have a right answer, a trap that’s going to leave Eddie feeling like shit either way. Because if Richie says no, then it’s a definitive end to any hope Eddie might have that his feelings aren’t unrequited, a boot stomping out the burning ember of optimism in his heart to reduce it to ash. But he knows, he _knows_ so unequivocally that if Richie says yes, it’ll just introduce a whole new insecurity driven worry that it was someone _else_ that finally caught Richie’s attention, someone far more worthy of it than he feels he is. And it isn’t really fair to Richie, because it’s a little selfish to probe at his identity crisis for clues as to if he might feel the same way Eddie does or not. But it’s a type of morbid curiosity that’s always been a downfall for him, the same kind that makes him poke at bruises just to see if they really hurt. There’s no way to win, but he waits with bated breath nonetheless.

“I don’t- I’m not really sure yet, I guess, but I-” Richie stops, shaking his head minutely with a frustrated furrow to his brow. He stops and turns to Eddie with a softer expression, that same almost-familiar glimmer in his eyes before he rephrases, “Yeah, yeah, I think so.” 

Eddie’s breath hitches and he can only nod, pressing his nose into the sleeve of Richie’s jacket and looking away once again. And he wants to ask a million questions, poke at the bruise until it darkens and he can _feel_ the pain, however dull. He wants to ask who is it? Is it a boy or a girl? Is it someone I’d know? Is it one of the losers? Is it _me? Please say it’s me._

He feels tears start to well in his eyes and close his throat, suffocating him more than this week already has. Because frankly this week has been exhausting between the constant anxiety and the sleepless nights muddled with loud thoughts and quiet tears, and being around Richie is medicine that burns as it goes down. He’s struggling to keep his head above water when the yearning undertow has him in its hold and thoughts of _you’re being selfish, this is your fault, Richie could have died, stop thinking about yourself_ are crashing at him in waves. And he wants to ask Richie about who he likes and be a good friend for once and show interest in what he has to say but he also kind of wants to cry and maybe he shouldn’t put Richie through that tonight.

All that he can manage in the end is a quiet, whispered plea of, “Can you take me home please?”

And he hates the way Richie deflates, the slumping of his shoulders and the twist of his mouth too reminiscent of the last time they talked. He hates the way the reminder sticks in his throat like all the unspoken words that have been buzzing in his head for a week now, hates the anxiety that surges through him at the way Richie’s eyes travel to the ground. Most of all he hates that he’s the one that caused that expression, then and now. 

But it feels like the weight of the day is finally landing on his shoulders, like Atlas retired and passed the world to Eddie; It’s too heavy to bear on unsteady ground and he can already feel his collar bones cracking under the pressure. He can feel the panic building at the base of his ribcage, filling up like a balloon until it squeezes every ounce of oxygen out of his lungs and finally pops. And he really, really can’t be here when it does, can’t be around Richie when he finally breaks down. Because it isn’t fair to push that weight onto Richie’s shoulders when he’s already collapsed, to force him to deal with Eddie’s problems on top of his own that are far from resolved. He just honestly, truly needs to get home, like, right now.

“It’s- Eds it's like, barely ten o’clock, I kinda just got here, I don’t-” Richie starts but Eddie’s already standing, shaking on his feet and trying his best to hold back the panic surging in the back of his throat like he could choke on it. He stands off the blanket and away from Richie, hands trembling and indecisively switching between gripping at his sleeve and carding through his tangled hair. He closes his eyes against the harsh thoughts of _this is your fault, you’re ruining his night, you’re a bad friend, your fault your fault your fault_ that hiss in his ear. 

“I know, I know, I’m sorry, I-I can walk if you want I just-” He’s tripping over his words in his haste to get them out, doing his best to hold back the tears burning his eyes despite the unsteady breaths betraying him, “I just want to go home, i-it's been a really long day and I just- I can’t- can’t be here right now, I don’t-” He keeps his eyes shut when he hears Richie scrambling to stand, holding his breath as he feels a tear slip down his cheek, “Please take me home, I- I just wanna go home,” He breathes, whimpering when warm hands cup his jaw and refusing to open his eyes to look at Richie.

_You’re being selfish._

“Woahwoahwoah, slow down Eds, c’mon, what’s wrong?” He pleads gently, thumb wiping away the tears on his cheek with such tender care that it absolutely _breaks_ Eddie, “ _Hey_ , look at me Eddie, c’mon, just look at me, it’s okay-”

_You’re ruining his night, just like always._

“No, no I don’t- I can’t do this right now,” He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes tighter and trying to steady his quickening breaths, tugging away from the steady grips of Richie’s hands only to be held a little closer. He feels disgusting like this, tears wetting his cheeks and sniveling a runny nose that makes him shiver. He knows he's selfish for crying over his own feelings when things could be- fuck, almost _were_ \- so, so much worse, but that doesn’t stop the suffocating panic constricting his chest the longer he stays there.

_He could have died._

“Eddie _please_ , just talk to me, you can talk to me,” Richie’s thumbs swipe across both cheeks now to catch the stray tears on their way down, and he presses his forehead to Eddie’s and gently shushes the quiet sob he lets out, “Do you need your inhaler? What do you need Eds, just tell me what you need from me, I’m right here,” And Eddie whimpers at the reminder, no matter how comforting Richie intended for it to be. Because Richie _wasn’t_ here all week, he was in a hospital, he was hooked up to machines, he was half dead. 

_And it’s your fault._

He grabs at Richie’s wrists, quivering at the hiss of pain Richie tries his best to hide and opening his eyes to look right through Richie’s cloudy blues with every ounce of energy he has left.

_He’s better off without you._

“I need you to not do this right now,” He whispers, too aware of the way Richie’s grip on his cheeks loosens and missing the warmth before it’s even gone, “Please, _please_ just don’t do this with me right now, that’s all I need, I-I know you want to help and- and I love you for that, I really do, but _please_ , Rich. I can’t do this right now,” And he knows how pitiful he must sound begging like this, how little sense he’s making as he pleads not to be helped. He knows he’s going to feel ugly and overdramatic later, knows that when he has a clearer head that he’ll be disgusted at how pathetic he’s being, but at the moment he just feels raw and tired and broken, and he’s doing everything he can not to put that on Richie.

_He hates you._

Eddie lets out a sob at the last thought and Richie searches his eyes for a moment before he closes them and nods, hands dropping from where they cradle Eddie’s face as he steps out of the space they shared. Eddie shudders and looks away, hugging the jacket tighter to him and doing his best to steady his breathing. 

_All you do is drag him down._

Richie goes about quietly packing up the blankets as Eddie does his best to calm himself and ignore his own thoughts. He debates how to let the others know he’s leaving. He could go down to the bank and call them back out of the water, go about saying his goodnights and deflecting questions about why he’s leaving so early and why he’s obviously been crying. He could, but he really doesn’t have the energy, so he settles for texting the groupchat. And he knows they won’t see it until they decide to leave the water for the night, knows that they’ll still ask questions when they do see it, but at very least this way he has a little bit of time to gather himself. 

_They’ll be better off without you anyways._

“Alright spaghetti, let's get you home,” Richie sighs with a sympathetic smile, drawing Eddie back to reality from where he had zoned out staring at his phone. Eddie nods silently and follows behind him, keeping his head down as they stumble down the path back to the truck. He wipes away the tears still beading down his face with the sleeve of Richie’s jacket and it’s not Richie but it’ll have to be good enough.

_Nothing will ever be good enough for you._

They stay quiet as they climb into the truck, and Richie passes the blankets to Eddie to hold for the ride back. Eddie hugs them to his chest as Richie sets up his usual driving playlist, connecting it to the truck’s sound system but turning it down low enough that it plays at barely above a murmur. The ride home stays silent but for the acoustic of the music filling the cab, and Eddie closes his eyes and presses his face into the blankets as he tries to focus only on the music and his breathing.

He notices a theme with the songs as they drive, a couple things they all have in common that seem a little too convenient to be wholly coincidental. All of them are slower, which, in itself isn’t that surprising. This is the playlist Richie only ever plays when he’s driving at night, so it makes sense that it would be made up of calmer songs. But the most notable similarities are the lyrics of the songs, the way each of them seems to be about something similar.

_It's hard to see what you mean to me_

_I'll never know why it's got me so low._

The first song isn’t acoustic but isn’t upbeat either, a whining sort of electric guitar introducing a slow drum beat and lyrics sung with an almost mournful kind of reflection. It’s nice, and it’s not one he’s heard Richie play before. The next song is one that he knows, though he can’t place how. All he knows for certain is that it’s not one that he’s ever heard on this playlist. It’s a simple acoustic melody with exposed vocals, harmonies and emphasized bass coming together on the chorus to give it a bigger feeling, encompassing the entire car until it’s all you can focus on. 

_Well you look like yourself, but you're somebody else_

_Only it ain't on the surface_

And he can’t help the way he nearly flinches at the lyrics, thrown back to his earlier thoughts about how Richie hadn’t seemed like himself lately. He realizes though that he can’t really say much, considering he’s barely been functioning like a human being for the past week. 

The next song is little more than a few repeating notes on a piano, the breathy, almost mumbling voice of the singer and the strength of the bass giving a comforting sense of emptiness. 

_Now would you hate me if I said goodbye so quick_

_You could eat my dust?_

This isn’t a song Eddie’s ever heard either, and he trembles with the realization that they’re all new. Because he might be reading too much into it but that’s always been a gift of his, and the songs all share a distinct kind of melancholy that feels a little too on the nose to mean nothing at all.

“Rich?” He mumbles into the blanket, peering at Richie in the driver's seat and watching the way he tilts his head to let Eddie know he’s listening, “Um, are these new songs? Like, new in the playlist, I guess.”

“Oh uh, yeah, I’m actually kinda surprised you noticed,” Richie mumbles the last part, thumbs tapping at the bottom of the steering wheel as he glances over at Eddie in the passenger seat, “Yeah they’re just songs I’ve been listening to a lot or whatever.”  
  
Eddie nods absently, eyes drifting somewhere between the glovebox in front of him and the seat between his thighs, “This is just your nighttime playlist right? Does it like… have a theme? Or..?” He isn’t really sure how to phrase it, and he feels like he’s running on empty at this point, but Richie seems to get what he means. 

“Uh, I don’t really know? I mean I never intended it to have a theme but I guess they’re all just songs that I’m like, kinda feeling at the time I guess? I don’t even know if that makes sense but yeah,” He explains halfheartedly, carefully watching Eddie from the corners of his eyes, “Why?”  
  
Eddie doesn’t even try to think of an answer, shrugging as he pulls his knees to his chest and hugs the blanket a little closer. A mildly delirious part of him thinks that if he hides his face in it for long enough that he might just disappear into it. He kind of wishes that were true. Somewhere along the way he stopped crying, but it's hard to appreciate small miracles at a time like this.

They pull into the driveway less than a minute later, silence hanging heavily between them with no ideas of how to fill it. Richie turns off the truck and the headlights, and Eddie debates with himself what to do from there. He knows he needs to talk to Richie, knows he won’t be able to sleep if he lets this slip by unmentioned, lets Richie think he hasn’t noticed, lets him think he’s still alone. But his emotions have been running high all day- hell, all _week-_ and he feels far too fragile, like he might just collapse any moment. He’s torn between wanting to open the door and fall out of the truck- to drag himself back into the familiarity of his room however constricting it might feel- and burying himself in Richie’s chest like he could build a nest in his ribcage.  
  
In the end he knows he only really has one option, knows he isn’t quite ready to leave Richie’s presence just yet, so he sucks in a breath and sits a little straighter. He unfolds the blankets and lays them over his lap, clutching them just underneath his chin as he moves on the bench until he’s thigh to thigh with Richie. Richie goes easily as Eddie moves his arm around to burrow into his side, simply hooks his arm around Eddie’s shoulders and turns his body a bit to more easily slot them together. Eddie finds a comfortable spot for his head tucked under Richie’s chin and lets out his breath, wrapping his arms loosely around Richie’s waist as a hand comes up to play with the hairs at the nape of his neck. His knees are still pulled toward his chest and half resting on Richie’s thighs in a way that isn’t really comfortable for either of them but neither has the energy to fix, so they stay that way for now. Eddie gets the distinct feeling that he’s using Richie as a bomb shelter in a way, curling into the other boy’s body in a fruitless attempt to protect himself from his own atomic emotions. Richie presses his nose to the top of Eddie’s head, and if he feels the kiss Richie lays there he just closes his eyes and pretends he’s none the wiser because he really can’t process those kinds of emotions right now.

“How you feelin’ spaghetti?” Richie murmurs, threading his fingers through Eddie’s hair. Eddie can’t help but laugh a little at the question, a breathy humorless kind of laugh that’s more air than noise. He draws a deep breath before sighing, pressing his nose to Richie’s collar and making a home in the scent of his cologne. 

“Could be better I guess,” His answer is muffled from his place tucked underneath Richie’s jaw but Richie seems to hear him anyways, pulling away to readjust their position. He drags Eddie’s legs into his lap like he had at Bill’s house the week before, tugging the blankets around to cover Eddie’s stretched legs before he pulls the smaller boy closer once again to go back to playing with his hair. The hand that isn't in his hair is soothing circles onto his outer thigh on top of the blanket, and Eddie thanks God for the layers between them that dull the fire that would surely bloom on his thighs otherwise. 

“What's got you so down Eddie my love?” Richie questions with a halfhearted attempt at an undefined old-timey sounding Voice, but Eddie’s more focused on the nickname and the buzzing it causes in his ears. And he isn’t quite sure how to bring this up, isn’t sure how he should go about this kind of thing. He doesn’t want to come off too aggressive or too forward and scare Richie off, but he doesn’t want to skip around it so much that it’s unhelpful. He’s still angry, and sad, and fucking terrified, but what he’s feeling at the moment shouldn’t matter. He knows that this is his fault in the first place, and he has to let Richie know he’s not as alone as Eddie made him feel. So he decides to start there.

“I really missed you this week ya know,” He lets out another teary laugh, “It was kind of stupid how crazy worried I was. I’m pretty sure Ben is sick of me at this point, Bill too, I was a fuckin’ mess. I just- we’ve never gone that long without talking, ya know? And I thought- I don’t know, I guess I thought you were mad at me or maybe you were hurt or something and I just… couldn’t get it outta my head,” He breathes, and he feels like he’s kind of giving Richie a last chance to be honest on his own terms, to tell Eddie what happened on his own volition without worrying about the rest of the losers finding out and freaking out about it. Richie squeezes him a little tighter, and Eddie really thinks this might be it. 

“I missed you too Eddie, I could never be mad at you, promise,” He pauses to press another kiss to Eddie’s hair like it’s part of the apology, and Eddie appreciates the gesture, however empty it may be. Richie hesitates before he continues, and Eddie holds his breath, “I’m really sorry I just disappeared like that. I didn’t mean to I just- Went and I have been kind of at each others throats lately, it’s stupid,” Eddie hates that he can feel his heart drop to his stomach the longer Richie keeps spouting off a lie, “I would have talked to you sooner but we didn’t get back until tonight and-”  
  
“You know, I ran into Maggie this morning,” Eddie starts when he can’t bear it anymore, shutting his eyes when he feels Richie’s breath hitch in his throat. The way he stiffens under Eddie’s cheek makes the smaller boy feel a little sick, but he supposes that isn’t anything new 

“O-oh, yeah, this morning, we got back this morning,” He backtracks, and Eddie sighs, as tired as the dead.

“I know you were in the hospital Rich. You don’t have to lie,” And it comes off a little harsher than he means it to but he only regrets it when Richie pulls away, sitting back in his seat and tilting his head towards the ceiling with a sigh. His hand falls away from Eddie’s thigh to drag down his face instead, and Eddie focuses on the way his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows instead of how hollow he feels at the loss of Richie’s hands. And all he can really do is stare absently at the space between them, biting the inside of his cheek just to will himself to feel _anything_. But all he can feel at the moment is the kind of emptiness reserved for hotel hallways at two in the morning and rural roads to nowhere at midnight; Vast, echoing expanses of nothingness that leave him with a hole in his chest and a lump in his throat. No thoughts occupy the rooms behind the old oak doors or the cars creaking slowly down the street with dim headlights, and it might be comforting if it weren’t so lonely. 

“You weren’t supposed to find out,” Richie admits quietly after a moment, and Eddie glares at the way the corners of his lips tug up, like this is _funny_ to him. Like this was all a prank that Eddie found out about before Richie could pull back the curtain and gleefully yell _I got ya!_ , like they can just laugh it off and go back to normal like nothing ever happened.

“So you were just never going to tell me?” Despite his best efforts, Eddie can’t help the betrayed lilt that slips into the question, though he feels sort of far away as he asks it. He can’t seem to tie his thoughts to his physical body, he feels almost like he isn’t real and it’s only getting worse now that Richie’s hands have given up their soothing. The space his eyes have landed on near the handle of the driver’s side door suddenly feels miles away, and all he can do is rest his temple against Richie’s collar bone and keep staring. 

“Ideally yeah,” And he has the audacity to huff out a laugh as he keeps his eyes trained on the ceiling, and Eddie tightens his fists in Richie’s shirt to stem the anger that trembles his fingertips. 

“It’s not funny Rich,” He snaps, nose twitching as his brows furrow and his eyes remain on the same spot on the door. 

“Trust me babe, I know,” Richie gives a wet laugh as he brings a hand up to cover his eyes underneath his glasses, and Eddie shudders at the pet name but softens when he looks up to find the tear trailing down pale cheeks, “I’m just trying really fucking hard not to cry.” 

Eddie shuts his eyes against that and brings a hand up to hang off the collar of Richie’s shirt, his thumb rubbing back and forth against his breastbone as an apology. The arm Richie still has wrapped around his shoulder tightens as he draws Eddie closer, and he knows he should give Richie a moment to collect himself, but he can’t help the way the only question occupying his thoughts slips from his lips. 

“Why wouldn’t you just tell me?” He whispers, opening his eyes to trace down the long muscle in Richie’s neck as he turns his head away, “Do… do you not trust me?”

“Eddie, fuck, no don’t- don’t do that, that’s not-” Richie’s hand grips at the sleeve of his jacket on Eddie’s shoulder and he turns his head towards Eddie again, pressing his cheek to soft chestnut hair, “Of course I trust you. Of course.”  
  
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” He mumbles kind of petulantly, because he’s too out of it to watch his tone. He feels small huddled in Richie’s lap like this, safe in a way that’s making him a little delirious, and he really can’t stop thinking about pressing a kiss to the exposed skin of Richie’s neck. It’s not the right time for a thought like that, but a voice that sounds strangely like his pastor tells him there will never be a good time for those kinds of thoughts, and he’s never been very good at compartmentalizing anyways. 

“Because I didn't want you to worry, I don't- it was just a stupid fucking mistake, I don't want to fuckin'…" He trails off for a second but Eddie let's him catch his breath in silence, and he can see exactly when Richie decides to switch gears, "I don't want you to think of me like that. Like- like I'm weak." 

“You’re not weak, ” Eddie mumbles, and he wants to give a better defence, to prove to Richie that he doesn’t think any less of him, but he can’t find the words. Richie doesn’t hum in agreement or shake his head in protest, and they fall into a silence as Richie’s hand hesitantly reclaims its spot on Eddie’s thigh. The song changes, the intro nothing but hollow white noise and echoing notes before it gives way to slow acoustic. It’s another new addition to the playlist.

“What happened?” That same morbid curiosity compels him to ask, but Richie stiffens again and he’s about to take it back when the other boy sighs and sits a little straighter without dislodging Eddie from his spot. 

_I’m singin’ at a funeral tomorrow_

“I don’t fucking know, I-I mean I haven’t necessarily been doing _great_ lately, I guess. And if I’m being honest movie night was amazing, but I guess after I left your house I just kinda… crashed,” He breathes, but Eddie can tell he has more to say, so he waits, “I guess I’ve always kind of wanted to- I mean, I was never like _actively suicidal,_ but like, I don't really wanna be _alive_ , either. Like I'm not gonna _kill myself_ but I wouldn't- I wouldn't mind if I just… died. If that makes sense."

_For a kid a year older than me_

It doesn't, not really, and Eddie kind of wants to throw up hearing Richie say that, but he just nods as encouragement for Richie to keep going. His hands are shaking for a different reason now and he thinks he could start crying again at any moment, so maybe it’s best that he let Richie do the talking. 

_I’ve been talkin’ to his dad_

“I got home and Mags and Went were already asleep and I’m shit at dealing with emotions so I stole some good ol’ tequila from Went’s liquor cabinet and went to town,” He laughs again before sniffing, and Eddie’s too scared to look up and see if he’s still crying, “And I was good for a while, Bev was still awake and I was texting her, so I was just drunk and distracted. So I was fine. And then Bev went to bed and I didn’t and- and I crashed again.”

_It makes me so sad_

And don’t get it wrong, Eddie’s happy that Bev was awake to keep Richie company while he was upset, but a part of him that he’s almost disgusted by wonders why it wasn’t him that Richie texted for comfort. He hadn’t fallen asleep until around two am that night, he would have been awake. And then that same voice hissing brutal words to him at the quarry proposes: _He didn’t text you because you were the problem._ And he can’t hold back the way he shudders at that, but Richie must think he’s cold, going by the way he readjusts the blankets covering Eddie’s legs.

_When I think too much about it I can’t breathe_

“A-and then what?” He asks against his better judgement, and he can’t even try to hide the way his voice cracks.

_And I have this dream where I’m screaming underwater_

“And then I texted you, which I- I shouldn’t have done, it was honestly really fucked up to pull you into it like that I- that was shitty. I’m sorry,” He breathes, shaking his head at himself, “And- and I waited up for you for a while, and you said I couldn’t come over and I- uh,” Richie blanches, looking down at Eddie with eyes brimming with uncertainty, only continuing when Eddie gives a small nod, “I know where Maggie keeps her sleeping meds, like the _heavy_ shit and I just… downed those fuckers like candy,” He laughs again, and Eddie’s so caught up in the offhanded confirmation that this wouldn’t have happened if he’d just skipped his run with Ben to let Richie come over that he doesn’t think to scold Richie for making a joke about it again. And he can’t stop the tears that start to soak Richie’s shirt at this point, but he tries to at least be quiet about it. 

_While my friends are all waving from the shore_

“And- fuck I guess I just… wanted to be sure it worked so, uh,” He doesn’t finish the sentence but instead just gestures vaguely at his covered forearm, and Eddie’s a little ashamed at the ugly sob that wracks his body at the action. Richie’s quick to pull him closer and run a steady hand through his hair, and Eddie’s startled by how angry he is that Richie is the one comforting _him_ right now, “I don’t really remember anything after that, but I guess Mags found me a little later. Uh, nurses said I was out for three days, they had to pump my stomach n’ shit, the whole nine yards. I got released this afternoon.”

_And I don’t need you to tell me what that means_

“Wh-why would you, I don’t-” Eddie chokes out through tears and hiccups, shaking his head at himself and doing his best to get it out, “ _Why?_ ”

_I don’t believe in that stuff anymore_

“I wish I fuckin' knew. Lately it’s been like- fuck, I don’t know, like I can only be happy when I’m around other people? Like when I’m with you- with any of the losers, I feel so fucking great, Top Tier Trashmouth, ready to fuckin’ burn the city down or whatever the fuck,” And Eddie can feel Richie smile when he lets out the smallest huff of a laugh at that, “But as soon as the party’s over and I go home it’s like I just… shut down. I can’t even tell you how many times this summer I’ve gotten home from hanging out with you guys and just started crying, for like no fucking reason! It’s stupid, I _know_ it’s stupid, but it’s like… It’s almost like I just can’t be happy by myself, ya know?”  
  
And as much as Eddie hates to admit it, that’s the first thing Richie’s said so far that he really, truly understands. 

_Jesus Christ I’m so blue all the time_

And suddenly Eddie’s struck by the fact that he didn’t know _any_ of this, that it never came up in their late night talks in his driveway or their hushed conversations on the phone when one of them has a nightmare. And at first he almost wants to be upset with Richie, ask why he doesn’t trust him, why he never told Eddie any of this shit that he’s apparently been dealing with for months. But then he realizes that if anything he should be mad at himself, because he obviously hasn’t done a good enough job showing Richie that he cares. He’s been so caught up in trying to keep Richie from knowing how much he likes him that he started pushing him away right when he needed Eddie the most, so busy trying to be _more than_ friends that he forgot to be a _good_ friend first, and fuck if that realization doesn’t make him want to scream.

_And that’s just how I feel_

“I got my phone back the day after I woke up,” Richie continues a moment later, left hand smoothing out the blanket over Eddie’s thigh, “But they wanted to keep me for observation a little longer, I guess it really fucked up my stomach. They decided that I didn’t need to be admitted to the psych ward which- thank fucking god, who knows how long they would have kept me there. Apparently CPS made my parents sign a form saying they’d get me therapy and like, lock up any meds in the house n’ shit. So it’s- it’s okay. I’m okay, and Maggie and Went are still really upset but we’re- we’re working on it. It’s okay.”

_Always have and I always will_

And Eddie wants to yell, wants to grab Richie by the shoulders and tell him how _not okay_ this whole thing is, how close he was to never being _okay_ again, how close he put his friends and family to never being _okay_ again. He wants to shake him until he understands the gravity of his words, until he knows his own worth, until he realizes how earth-shatteringly _loved_ he really is. But he can’t quite get there, because that same part of him that wondered why Richie texted Bev instead of him is caught on a particular part of what Richie just said.

“Wait, you had your phone?” And he can feel the incredulous type of anger thickening his tone like molasses, but he feels powerless to stop it as he pulls back from Richie to get a clear look at his face even through the tears clouding his vision, “And you didn’t think to text me? To text literally any of us?”

_I always have and I always will_

“Of course I didn’t,” Richie laughs like it’s obvious, and Eddie can feel his lungs ignite, “Had to be able to keep up the lie. If you knew I had my phone you guys would be expecting pictures of Portland, and I was very much _not_ in Portland.”  
  
And maybe it’s the casual tone or the- likely accidental- condescension, but the words seem to be somewhat of a last straw for Eddie. 

_I have a friend I call_  
  
“Of course? _Of course_ you had to lie?” He starts slowly, ignoring the tears still rolling down his cheeks as he pulls his legs off of Richie’s lap to get them under himself instead. And Richie must know he fucked up there, going by the way his face pinches as he recoils a bit, “Richie, you didn’t have to fucking lie! You could have fucking talked to me, you could have talked to Bev, we could have _helped_! I didn’t even know you felt like that Rich, how am I supposed to help if I didn’t even know you wanted to-” And he chokes on his words because he can’t bring himself to say it no matter how worked up he is, so instead he just closes his eyes and runs a hand through his hair as he breathes out, “Fuck.”

_When I’ve bored myself to tears_

“I just didn’t want you to worry,” Richie mutters like a child being scolded, hands moving to pick at his steering wheel without Eddie’s warmth to keep them busy, “And I didn’t- this wasn’t planned. I mean, I guess I’ve thought about it before but I never- I never wanted to go through with it,” And right as Eddie’s starting to melt at the soft regret of Richie’s voice, he adds, “I was drunk, ya know? It was more impulse than anything.” 

And that same fire in his lungs spreads across his chest and up his throat, sets his tongue alight behind his teeth.

_And we talk until we think we might just kill ourselves_

“ _Impulse?_ Richie are you fucking kidding me? This isn’t some stupid fuckin’ shirt you buy on a whim, you could have _died_ !” His voice is too loud for the liminal space of the truck cab and he’s doing the hand chopping motion Richie usually makes fun of him for but he’s scared and half-mourning and hurt and so, so fucking _sad_ and this is the way it’s manifesting. And maybe it’s not healthy but it sure as hell hurts less to just roll with his anger instead of thinking about how close he really was to losing his best fucking friend because Eddie was too selfish to give him the time of day.

_But then we laugh until it disappears_

“Well yeah, that was kind of the point,” Richie chuckles awkwardly as he scratches at the back of his neck, and Eddie _knows_ what he’s doing, he _knows_ that Richie’s only making jokes because he’s uncomfortable and that’s always been his go to, his role in the group. He knows this, but he lets it get to him anyways.

_And last night I blacked out in my car_

“Can you stop joking around for two fucking seconds Rich,” He bites out, and he hates the way Richie flinches but the momentum keeps him going anyways, “It’s not fucking funny, it’s- it’s fucking selfish! How do you think your parents would have felt, what about the losers, what about _me_ ?” And he shouldn’t have added the last part and he kind of wants to shrivel up at the darkened look Richie’s giving him right now but he’s not quite done, “You always act like you’re fucking invincible Richie but you’re _not_! You can’t just do whatever the fuck you want whenever you feel like it, you have to fucking think about others once in a while!” 

_And I woke up in my childhood bed_

“Oh, oh you’re calling _me_ selfish?” Richie’s got that quiet kind of anger in his voice that’s always kind of terrified Eddie, and he can already feel all his indignation dying in his throat as Richie sits a little straighter, “You’re the one making this about yourself! It was just a drunken fucking mistake Eddie, this isn’t about you!” 

_Wishing I was someone else_

And Eddie deflates at that so quickly that he practically caves in on himself, tears blurring his vision again as his jaw clamps shut and whatever sharpened words he had left dull in his mouth. Because Richie’s wrong- in a way this _is_ about Eddie. Because this is _his_ fault, this is the culmination of every time he’s pushed Richie away or ignored the signs that this might happen, every selfish fucking decision he’s made just to save his own feelings. Because this all could have been avoided if he’d just taken an hour out of his day to listen to Richie, to comfort him and take care of him when he was in a bad place. And he didn’t. And Richie almost died. And it’s entirely Eddie’s fault.

_Feeling sorry for myself_

And there are so many things he wants to say, so many apologies dripping off his tongue, but the only thing that makes it out is the smallest, weakest squeak of, “I-It’s not?”

And Richie stares at him for a moment with a confused kind of annoyance, before the furrow of his brows smooths out when he finally seems to pick up on what Eddie’s thinking. 

_When I remembered someone’s kid is dead_

“Oh my god,” He breathes, red rimmed eyes wide behind his glasses as he reaches for Eddie’s shoulders to fold him to his chest in a tight hug, “No, Eddie holy shit, this had nothing to do with you, this wasn’t your fault at all, God no,” He murmurs right by Eddie’s ear as sobs wrack Eddie’s body, shaking fists desperately clutching at the back of Richie’s shirt as he buries his face in the taller boy's shoulder. He vaguely registers hands around his hips before he’s being hoisted to sit on Richie’s thighs, Richie gently coaxing Eddie’s legs to rearrange so he’s comfortably stradling the boy beneath him. 

_Jesus Christ, I’m so blue all the time_

“I’m s-sorry, I’m so fu-ucking sorry,” He can’t really get the words out through the hiccuping sobs and the muffling of his face pressed to the juncture of Richie’s neck, but he keeps trying anyway, “I-I should have let you c-come over, I didn’t know, I-I didn’t know, it’s my fault, I’m so s-selfish, I'm so sorry Rich, I didn’t fucking kn-know,” He feels like a chilren’s toy stuck repeating the same few phrases but he _needs_ Richie to know he’s sorry, that he never meant for any of this to happen. 

_And that’s just how I feel_

“Shh, It’s not your fault Eds, don’t say that,” Richie pleads as his hands soothe up and down Eddie’s back, hiding the tears in his own eyes by pressing a million little kisses to the side and top of Eddie’s head, shushing the smaller boy’s cries as he goes. Eddie’s trembling in a way that has nothing to do with the cold but Richie reaches for the blankets anyways, pulling one up to cover Eddie’s back and shoulders, “This was never your fault spaghetti, I mean it.”

 _Always have and I always will_  
  
Eddie shakes his head and goes to deny it again but Richie already knows his every move, pulling back to cup Eddie’s cheeks in his hands and press their foreheads together, wiping away the tears cascading down freckled cheeks like fallen stars, “Look at me sweetheart,” He whispers, patiently waiting as Eddie whimpers and opens his eyes to search Richie’s own, “I’m right here, okay? I’m alive, I’m okay, I’m not going _anywhere,_ alright?” He waits until Eddie hesitantly nods to continue, “I’m not mad at you, and it wasn’t your fault. It was just a mistake because I was way too fucking drunk and I got in my own head, I would never- fuck Eddie, I would _never_ leave you like that, okay? I promise,” He murmurs, holding eye contact to make it damn clear that he means every word he’s saying. 

_I always have and I always will_

Eddie sniffles miserably and does his best to steady his breathing, looking down at the small space between him and Richie and finally having the presence of mind to blush at their position. He draws in a shaky breath before looking back up to Richie, searching watery blue eyes for any trace of dishonesty as he asks, “You promise?” 

_And it’s 4 am, again_

And Richie smiles- _really_ smiles, the kind that he only ever shows to Eddie, the kind that only comes out on late nights spent sneaking into each others rooms or sharing beds they got too big to fit in together three years ago- and it’s such a soothing sight that Eddie almost wants to keep crying.

“I promise,” He confirms, prying one of Eddie’s hands away from where it’s still gripping Richie’s shirt to lock their pinkies together with a grin. Eddie’s breath catches in his throat at he stares at that grin, heart stopping as he thinks about how easy it would be to just lean forward and-

_And I’m doing nothing_

“I think I need to sleep for a decade after today,” He mumbles absently instead, shooing away any thoughts of kissing Richie to file away for another time. Richie barks out a startled laugh, resting his forehead to Eddie’s shoulder as they giggle together for the first time in what feels like forever. And maybe he didn’t get to kiss Richie tonight, but that’s probably for the best- his fantasies of kissing Richie for the first time have always been in far more romantic settings than this, and he would like to live up to that, if he ever gets the chance. Besides, getting Richie to laugh is just as good anyways.

_Again._

“Yeah, fuck, you definitely need to get some sleep,” He agrees through residual laughter as the song fades out around them, his hands falling from Eddie’s waist as the smaller boy awkwardly maneuvers his way off Richie’s lap and back to his own seat, “You’re mean when you’re tired.”

“Shut up,” Eddie laughs as he wipes at his eyes, looking back to Richie with clearer eyes. His hair is somehow even messier than before, his bottom lip bitten red from where he’s chewed at it and somehow looking so small in his slightly baggy shirts. His cheeks are flushed and ruddy and he’s got tear stains lining his cheeks, straw droplets still clinging to long curled lashes. And he still looks stupid- that outfit is really, _really_ bad- but he’s still smiling and his eyes are sparkling behind his glasses and Eddie thinks that maybe he’s never looked prettier, so he thinks it’s justified when he looks straight through glass lenses and mumbles, “I love you.”

And Richie melts a little bit at that, his features softening into something a little shyer as he responds, “I love you too spaghetti.” 

But Richie Tozier can only be so serious for so long, so he grins and ruffles Eddie’s hair before gently pushing him toward the passenger side door, “Now get your ass to bed before Mrs. K finds you, I can only hold her off for so long, the lady’s fuckin’ _insatiable._ ”

“Ugh, Richie!” Eddie scolds as he hops down from the truck, “Beep beep, you fucking perv. I take it back, I hate you.”  
  
“Oh I know it babe,” Richie winks, and Eddie hopes the red in his cheeks passes as leftovers from his crying fits, “Goodnight Eds.”  
  
“Night Rich,” Eddie grumbles with a hidden smile, closing the door and spinning to walk away. He stops in his tracks after only a few steps, frowning to himself and picking at the sleeves of the jacket as he heads back to the truck. Richie rolls the window down as soon as Eddie turns around, so Eddie leans his forearms on the windowsill as he asks, “Um, do you want your jacket back? I kinda forgot to give it back last week, so…”

“Nah you can keep it, it looks good on you,” He decides after a moment.

“Are you sure? You worked so hard on it…” Eddie resists with a frown only to hide how giddy he is at the idea of keeping Richie’s jacket even a little bit longer. It’s disgustingly couple-y, and he can’t say he doesn’t kind of love it.

“Yeah go ahead, if I want it back I’ll just break into your house and take it back, sound good?” He proposes, speaking over a yawn that reminds them both of how long the day has been.

“Or you could just knock on my front door like a normal person,” Eddie monotones with an arched brow, trying his best not to crack a smile when Richie laughs again.

“Yeah yeah, I guess I could be boring about it, whatever. Get inside pipsqueak, it’s past your bedtime,” And if Richie were any closer Eddie would punch him, but he’s not, so Eddie sticks with his meanest scowl and hopes it has the same effect.

“Whatever dickhead, goodnight,” He rolls his eyes for lack of a better response, and he stops halfway through his turn away to look back towards Richie over his shoulder, “Text me when you get home?” 

“Will do, but you better be asleep when I do or we’re gonna have an issue,” Richie threatens, serious expression breaking seconds later to blow an over dramatic kiss Eddie’s way.

Eddie laughs and turns away, finally heading inside for the night with Richie’s jacket still wrapped snugly around his torso, and Richie doesn’t leave the driveway until Eddie closes the front door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Eddie's emotions and reactions in this chapter are NOT meant to be an example of healthy coping. I'm fully aware of how toxic his responses are in some instances- specifically getting mad at Richie, calling him selfish, etc- but this is based off my personal experience in this type of situation as well my interpretation of how these characters would react, not an endorsement of their actions 💞
> 
> I'm SO sorry this chapter took so long to get out, if you haven't noticed this chapter is MASSIVE (18k words) and between work and prepping for college it took me a while to get it done, pls take all the Himbo Bill scene and the head kisses at end as my apology 💕✨ The next chapter will be lighter as far as plot goes!!
> 
> **If you need a pick me up after that downer, I commissioned some art of Richie's outfit from last chapter! you can view it here:  
> https://rb.gy/rwpwqj ***
> 
> P.s: If you would like a summary of the triggering material to avoid reading it feel free to comment or message me on tumblr, I will gladly send you a censored summary of events 💖

**Author's Note:**

> Can you tell this hyper specific concept is based on my real experiences? Try not to read too much into it 😌✌️
> 
> Comments and kudos are vv much appreciated!! Hand over that sweet sweet validation, or if it's more your speed pls feel free to yell at me on my tumblr @ himbroughh
> 
> Give some lovin to my amazing beta and their fics @ onceagainoncemore on ao3 and @ himbotozier on Tumblr!


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